


THE ROAD

by Popcornjones



Series: RACE TO YOUR HEART [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Abandonment Issues, Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bisexual Greg Lestrade, Broken Up, Competition, Cycling, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, Gay Mycroft Holmes, Gay Sex, Growing Up, Homophobia, Losing, M/M, Mystrade Fanworks Fest, Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, anon hookups, bike racing, breakup fallout, crashing, former relationship, mummy is awful, mystrade, winning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:21:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 58,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26164825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Popcornjones/pseuds/Popcornjones
Summary: Cyclocross season has ended and Greg Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes are moving on to road racing.During 'cross season, they became friends, fell in love, became a couple, and broke up when Greg discovered his ex-girlfriend was pregnant. A devastated Mycroft was then disowned, abandoned by the family that had always supported his racing when Mummy discovered his homosexuality.Alone, Mycroft struggles to rebuild his life. He signs on with a World Tour cycling team — Amstel, the same team for which Greg Lestrade rides. They have vowed to try to rehabilitate their relationship for the sake of the team. Can they overcome the hurt and pain and become functional, friendly teammates?
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: RACE TO YOUR HEART [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1900072
Comments: 88
Kudos: 58





	1. STRADE BIANCHI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft’s first road race with a World Tour team.

“Here’s the plan.” Greg Lestrade said, only loud enough for Mycroft to hear. “It’s windy and you’re crap in the wind. If you want to get in the break, stick on my wheel. I’ll protect you from the wind until we get to the hills, then you launch.”

It was a good plan — better than what Mycroft had: sit in the bunch and look for an opportunity. It was always better to _make_ the opportunity.

“I’m not crap in the wind.” He said.

“You’re utter shit, and you know it.”

“It’s all positioning — I’m excellent at positioning.”

“Great, position yourself on my wheel and stay there!”

“Fine. But no one is going to let _you_ get in the break — you won too many races last season, you’re a marked man. If you try, they’ll chase you down.”

Greg swore, knowing Mycroft was right.

“Just stick with me, yeah? The crosswinds are going to tear this race apart and you don’t want to get left behind.”

“I grew up riding in Belgium too.” Mycroft reminded him. “I know how to capitalise on the crosswinds.”

“This is your first bloody road race, Mycroft.” Greg snapped. “If you want to finish it, sit on my fucking wheel!”

Mycroft smirked. He enjoyed winding Greg up much too much.

They hadn’t seen each other for more than two weeks following their discussion in Middlekerke. Mycroft had found the separation useful.

He’d embarked on the new training regimen devised by Jens Schilinger, which had him spending long days on the bike, punctuated with sets of short and medium length intervals to nurture his precious explosive power. He would finish an eight-hour training ride, hoover up whatever food Anthea set out for him and fall asleep on her massage table. When she woke him, he’d eat again and then collapse into bed.

For the first time since New Year’s, Mycroft didn’t dream of Greg Lestrade. He did not dream of laying in the man’s arms, of spooning, Greg’s erection pressing against his arse, of laughing and kissing, strong hands on his body, caressing his skin. He did not dream of feeling _loved_ …

Mycroft slept like the dead, waking early at his bladder’s insistence to prepare for another long day on his road bike.

Amstel delivered Mycroft’s time trial bike to his flat. Schilinger had analysed Mycroft’s data obsessively and come to the conclusion that he needed to begin specific training for the race against the clock. 

In his training schedule, Jens specified ever increasing time riding the specialised machine. He wanted Mycroft to get used to the bike — used to, but not comfortable — before testing in the wind tunnel. That data would allow them to adjust Mycroft’s position on the rigid bike for maximum aerodynamics.

Time trials were decided by seconds, sometimes tenths of seconds, so every tiny improvement to speed was vital.

Six days before Strade Bianchi, Alun had packed up the TT bike in a travel bag and Mycroft had taken it with him to Italy. There he reunited with the team for a training camp on the same roads on which Mycroft would ride his first pro road race with a World Tour team.

“I thought you could room with Lestrade.” Hugo Charpentier said when Mycroft arrived at the hotel. He held out a key card.

Mycroft knew he should simply take the card. But just the thought of sharing a room with Greg Lestrade undid all the good the past two weeks had done him.

“Would it be possible to room with someone else?” He heard himself say. “I’d like to get to know my other teammates better.”

“Is there a problem with Lestrade?”

“Goodness, no.” Mycroft lied smoothly. “We’ve simply seen a lot of each other over the past few months.”

“Hmph.” Charpentier looked at the envelopes in his hand and opened one. “I’m putting you with Gert Bol — if that’s acceptable.” 

Mycroft cringed at the sarcastic undercurrent. “Perfectly. Thank you.”

Bol was a Dutch hard man that had been riding for Amstel for ten years — the pinnacle five years prior when he’d won Ronde Van Vlaanderen from a breakaway, depriving the team’s popular leader of a third consecutive victory. He called his wife every evening and slept in an oversized shirt with a picture of their three young children printed on it.

Though he complained about Mycroft’s Flemish accent, he was clearly delighted that Mycroft spoke Dutch. 

“Thank God Hugo gave me you — I’ve had to room with Faure for years. Thought I’d never get rid of that twat. Who’d they give him to? Lestrade!” Gert Bol laughed heartily. “Faure will shit his French pants.”

Mycroft did not ask why.

He saw Greg for the first time at dinner. He smiled and nodded in a friendly manner but sat at the other end of the table. Mycroft was glad.

The next morning, as they recced the course, Greg pulled up next to him. “No crying in road racing.” He said. The words sounded tentative... rehearsed, and Greg‘s glance betrayed some anxiety. 

It was a call back to when they were first becoming friends... 

Mycroft looked over, deducing what he could. Greg was trying — trying to put the past behind them. Trying to forge a cordial relationship within the team. 

Mycroft cleared his throat self-consciously. “I beg to differ.” He answered. “There is definitely crying on the time trial bike.”

Greg’s relief was plain. “Oh yeah. Those things are torture.” He said. “Have you been in the wind tunnel yet?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“Take your hanky.”

Every word was difficult… but it became easier as the days passed.

\---

The flag dropped and Strade Bianchi began with a neutral roll-out. No rider was allowed to pass the car that idled along at a moderate 25 kph, but racers could attempt to improve their place in the bunch. Greg was very good at moving up through the peloton — if one wasn’t moving forward constantly one would be shuffled to the back, which was not where anyone who wanted to be in the breakaway should be.

Getting into the break was Mycroft’s assignment. 

“It is good for the team.” Hugo Charpentier had told him. “Your teammates won’t have to chase if you’re in the breakaway. They will be fresh when the racing kicks off in the last sixty kilometres.”

The breakaway. There was always a breakaway in professional races. Riders would attack the peloton in an attempt to “break away” and ride ahead. Sometimes a break formed right at the start. Sometimes it took an hour or longer, the peloton riding at full speed chasing down one attack after another.

Once the break was established, the peloton calmed down. Riders could have conversations. They could eat or go back to their team car for bottles of water. They could even stop for a “natural break” — emptying their bladders at the side of the road, if they could find a stretch where no spectators could see.

Whilst the peloton relaxed, the breakaway worked, flogging themselves to get as much time on the bunch as they could. The best description Mycroft had heard was that getting in a break was like trading in a comfortable corporate job to work 24/7 at a start-up. 

Occasionally — _very_ occasionally — all that work paid off and the break _wouldn’t_ get caught! One of the industrious racers would win!

But almost all of the time, the peloton chased them down.

Why go in the break when the odds of winning were so poor? The TV cameras were focussed on the breakaway riders for hours, the team’s sponsors getting lots of exposure. The pro continental teams — a step down from the World Tour teams — that were invited to race always wanted to be in the break, always needed the publicity. 

Amstel had a different impetus: teams never chased their own — thus if Mycroft were in the breakaway, Greg and his other teammates would sit in, benefitting from the work of other teams who didn’t have a rider out front.

None of the favourites to win the race would be allowed to go up the road in the break. 

But Mycroft was an unknown quantity. If he could get in the break, they’d let him go.

The first attack went the second the lead car signalled that the race was on. Mycroft had known attacks were imminent but the suddenness and violence of it shocked him.

Abruptly the peloton was charging along at almost fifty kpm! Mycroft clung to Greg’s wheel desperately, fighting riders crowding all around him. They wanted to be where he was, they wanted to force him backwards so they could move up. They were so close his knuckles rubbed the knuckles of the men to either side. They intruded on him and reflexively he bent his elbows out, taking his space. It was so fast and so close that the slightest wrong move would cause a crash that would take out a third of the peloton.

Only seventeen kilometres into the race, Hugo Charpentier spoke into Mycroft’s ear — all the racers had radio receivers taped to the shell of their ears. “ _Gravel_ in 500 metres. I repeat, sharp right corner into the first gravel section. Everyone should be near the front!”

All the other riders must have gotten the same message — every single racer fought to get to the front of the pack. It was cutthroat, but Mycroft knew if he lost Greg’s wheel, he’d never get it back.

Before he knew it, Mycroft was swooping through the corner onto the white gravel road. The gusty wind was lifting white dust into the air, and their tyres churned up clouds of the stuff. It tasted chalky on Mycroft’s tongue.

Visibility was radically reduced — Mycroft’s focus was honed-in on Greg’s back, Greg wheel. It was all he could see.

Two K later the gravel was replaced by tarmac. Mycroft pulled his shoulders down from his ears, attempting to relax some of the tension from his body.

Behind him a screech of brakes sounded, the clash of carbon fibre against pavement — someone had crashed, but Mycroft could not take his attention from the wheels and the road in front of him to look.

“Now!” Greg bellowed and sprinted. Mycroft stood up and spun after him, staying on the side away from the wind — Greg’s mass protected him from it and pulled him along.

They got separation and three riders joined them — but they were chased down and subsumed back into the bunch. 

More attacks went, riders flying away and being caught like whack-a-mole. He saw two other Amstel riders giving it a go — but this was one of the first races of the year, everyone was fresh and hungry.

It was a half hour and two more stretches of gravel before Greg signalled again. By then Mycroft had found the groove, the flow of the peloton. They shot away getting ten metres immediately. 

Someone was on Mycroft’s wheel. He looked under his arm and saw five riders with them. One of them, a big Frenchman, rolled to the front and took a hard pull. 

With a hand on Mycroft’s hip, Greg dropped away, returning to the peloton. And by some miracle, that satisfied the bunch and the chase petered out. The six of them had thirty seconds, then forty, fifty... Mycroft pulled through, took his turn on the front and they had a minute on the peloton!

Mycroft assessed the riders with him — three were from pro continental teams, one level below the World Tour teams. There was a man from Sphere — a Dane called Magnussen that Mycroft knew only by reputation — and a French rider named Marchand from Elettrico Meridionale, a World Tour team based in Italy. Elettrico had last year’s winner in their ranks. They would be working for a repeat.

Both teams were employing the same strategy as Amstel — they would not have to chase a break with their teammates in it. They could sit in and wait.

For more than three hours, Mycroft worked. The six of them had set up a rotating paceline* and everyone was taking their turns. Over the next two and a half hours they built up their lead to three minutes fifty-three seconds.

The peloton woke up and began to pursue them in earnest. An hour passed and their time gap had been reduced to 1:25.

Hugo Charpentier was in the car behind Mycroft. He had been telling Mycroft and then the other Amstel racers about the time gaps, upcoming gravel, narrowing roads, tight turns and other hazards.

“Holmes! Crosswind ahead! Repeat, heavy crosswinds. Lestrade, Bol, Faure, get to the front of the peloton — crosswinds in two kilometres.”

Mycroft swung through a sweeping corner onto a flat, open road — and the heavy wind shoved him a foot to the left! He leaned his entire body into the gale and in a feat of balance managed to keep the rubber side down without colliding with any of his breakaway companions.

He tucked himself behind and to the right of Magnussen, overlapping their wheels — the Sphere rider gave him some shelter from the brutal wind.

Despite Greg’s claims, Mycroft actually was quite good in the crosswinds for his weight. But he simply didn’t have enough mass to sit in it easily. Were he alone, the wind would slow him enough that he’d quickly be caught by the peloton.

But Marchand was a big unit who was born to ride in the wind. Magnussen, though slim and tall, carried more mass than Mycroft and provided ample shelter. Of the other three, two were Italians familiar with these roads. They sat in the wind almost as easily as Marchand. The sixth was a young Spaniard who had likely never dealt with a heavy crosswind. He would learn quickly, or he would be left behind. 

There was still far enough to ride that the four larger racers did not want to lose Mycroft or the Spaniard. As long as they kept taking their turns pulling at the front, they were valuable. They formed an echelon* and sheltered each other best they could.

But a minute later, Mycroft heard Hugo shouting instructions and encouragements. His teammates had gone to the very front of the pack and attacked just as they hit the crosswinds! They had strung the peloton out into a long line and inevitably, gaps began to open. If one got caught behind a gap, riding across in the winds took a Herculean effort that few racers could accomplish. Thus, the front group of racers had dwindled to only twenty-something riders!

And they would be catching up to Mycroft’s group soon! 

Almost as he thought it, their follow cars were made to drive past them — the gap had dropped under a minute and the vehicles were no longer allowed between the two groups. 

Mycroft readied himself — and could see the other racers doing the same. All but the Spaniard who had no idea what was about to happen.

Like a galloping herd of wild horses, the peloton overtook them. Almost before he knew he was in the group, Mycroft was at the very back, in danger of being spat out. He stood up and sprinted as hard as he could, clinging to Marchand — who was himself looking endangered. One of the Italians drifted past, going backwards…

Staying with Marchand was harder than anything Mycroft had ever done. They were riding so fast! And the wind wanted to pry him off the pack, set him adrift in the cyclone!

Then someone blocked the wind! 

Greg! Greg had come for him. They moved to the left side — the windward side — and Greg took the full brunt of the gale as he ushered Mycroft to the front of the small group. There, they tucked in the midst of the pack where they were completely sheltered. Greg handed Mycroft a gel. 

Mycroft sucked it down, the carbohydrate making him feel better almost immediately.

Greg stayed with him a few moments more. Then with a quick hand signal, he inserted himself into the rotating paceline that had dragged this group away from the rest of the peloton. Almost everyone was working! Big stars were rotating through, taking pulls alongside their lieutenants — men who’d won monuments,* won Olympic gold, and who vied for stages in the grand tours worked like dogs to keep this group from being pulled back by the groups behind them.

Assessing the riders, Mycroft took note of who was in this group, and who had missed out. Last year’s winner, Davide Trentino — Marchand’s team leader — was there. Moran, Sphere’s classics specialist, sat in the group with Magnussen. Lotto had two contenders this year, but only one of them was in this front bunch. One rider from Banque Francaise and one from Prime Tutoring California had made it. No one from Egypt Cycling, LPT or Giant Test Team were in the group. 

There were five riders from Amstel! If Mycroft included himself.

Mycroft ate another gel, squirted water into his mouth, fighting for position the whole time, and then moved into the line of workers. He found himself behind Christophe Allam — a rider who’d _won_ the Vuelta a España,* who had stood on the final podium of the Tour de France and been world road racing champion! Allam was almost forty now and looked just as hard and dangerous as he had fifteen years before when Mycroft had watched rapt as he competed on the telly. He felt a little starstruck.

That feeling lasted until Allam pulled off and Mycroft felt the full force of the wind. He moved to the side to allow the next racer in line have a turn. 

Despite the shortness of his pull, Mycroft had fulfilled all that was expected; he hadn’t slowed the pack, he had given the other riders a few more seconds of recovery before it was their time in the wind, and he was building up goodwill — the peloton was unforgiving of riders who didn’t do their part. If the likes of Christophe Allam, Sebastian Moran, Davide Trentino, Gorka Hernandez and Greg Lestrade could work, a nobody like Mycroft certainly should! Even if he _had_ just spent hours giving his all in the breakaway. It was the entire reason he’d been brought to the race!

The line rotated quickly — it was faster if no one spent more than ten or fifteen seconds on the front (not that Mycroft could) — and Mycroft fell into the rhythm. It was hypnotic, riding forwards, taking his turn in the wind, pulling to the right, out of the wind, and drifting backwards until he saw Allam. Then with four or five hard pedal strokes, latching onto his wheel and starting the process forwards again.

Hugo Charpentier squawked in his ear and the orderly line broke up. A section of white gravel was approaching rapidly, and everyone wanted to be at the very front! Mycroft fought, slotting into a narrow gully between and behind Greg and another Amstel rider, Julian Faure. 

Then, like birds, they wheeled to the left as one body, and the crosswind became a headwind. 

The thirty-man group exploded, stringing out into small clumps of racers. Mycroft found himself with Greg, Faure and Sebastian Moran in the second or third clump.

Moran looked at the three Amstel riders. Mycroft wondered if he would work with them — were the numbers reversed, Mycroft wouldn’t want to help the other team. The Sphere rider glanced at the group twelve metres in front of them — it contained Allam and Trentino. For a millisecond, Mycroft saw Moran’s angry, voracious _hunger_ for the win. Then it disappeared and Moran shrugged infinitesimally. Faure sighed and pulled through. Moran would not work with them. 

It was the tactically smart thing to do. No one, least of all Mycroft, could blame him. But that glimpse of Moran’s hunger had left a bad taste in his mouth.

The road tilted upward, and they climbed, the white gravel crunching under their tyres. The hill was challenging, but it granted them respite from the headwind. Greg signalled discretely and Mycroft understood — he should attack!

Uphill was Mycroft’s playground! He waited until Moran was looking the other direction and then he sprinted, shifting gear and spinning his legs. He bridged easily to the Allam group.

For half a second he thought about sitting in with them, but there was more hill — and Mycroft had more in the tank — so he raced past them. 

Whatever gap he got would not last — Mycroft couldn’t survive alone in the wind. He would need at least some of the racers behind him to make it to the finish. But giving them something to think about wasn’t a bad thing. And making them chase him softened them up for Greg or Julian Faure to attack later.

At the top, Mycroft looked under his arm and found Christophe Allam on his wheel. He was not surprised — the man was one of the world’s best climbers.

The descent was paved, and Mycroft led, taking it fast, ripping through the corners at speed. Allam dropped back six or seven metres, giving himself room to avoid Mycroft if he overcooked a corner.

But soon enough, the five racers behind caught them.

And then they looked at each other. Moran, Mycroft knew, had a reputation for being something of a cutthroat — and he was isolated, the only member of Sphere in this group. Allam and Trentino were wary. Greg looked to Allam — he was a patron of the peloton, someone so accomplished and so widely respected that he could make decisions for all 150 plus racers. 

“Let’s work.” Allam said, looking pointedly at Moran. “For now.”

As he spoke, the rider from Prime Tutoring California in his fluorescent pink kit, joined them. Others would be upon them soon and their advantage would disappear. 

Magnussen had been the only other Sphere racer in the thirty-man group. Having been in the break all day, Magnussen would be of limited use to Moran. He gained nothing by allowing that group to reform.

Moran did the math and after a brief sweep of the other racers — three Amstel riders, Allam and one of his lieutenants from Cinestar, Trentino and the Prime Tutoring rider — gave a barely-there nod and went to the front, taking the first pull himself. Allam followed, then Greg, Prime Tutoring (an Australian that everyone called “Jonesy”) Mycroft, Faure and Trentino. There were almost thirty kilometres left, ample time for the other favourites to catch up if they let them.

What followed was the most punishing thirty-three minutes Mycroft had ever spent on a bike. The pace was relentless. 

Julian Faure took extra turns at the front, letting Greg save his energy for the finish. The Cinestar domestique was doing the same for Allam, putting his body between his team leader and the wind as much as possible.

Within ten minutes both had been dropped. It was Mycroft’s turn to step up. 

He knew he couldn’t do much for Greg in the wind, but there was one more climb before they reached the finish line in Siena. Mycroft waited until they were halfway up, then attacked hard.

He shot away from the group, concentrating only on reaching the top — it _hurt_! It hurt so much more than his previous attack.

Mycroft crested alone — but Allam and Moran were close behind, Greg on their wheel. Jonesy and Trentino re-joined on the descent.

The attack had taken almost everything he had left. Mycroft was suffering badly. He clung to Greg’s wheel by force of will alone. He hoped it had helped… he felt pathetic. He felt around in his pockets for another gel.

But Greg Lestrade was _magnificent_! Riding full-out into the wind on a flat stretch of road suited him down to the ground. 

On the penultimate stretch of gravel, Trentino was dropped! Last year’s winner was spat out the back of the little group. Alone in the wind, he had no chance of catching back up.

“ _I did that_.” Mycroft told himself. “ _I helped to do that_.”

Allam looked grim. Jonesy seemed to be having the time of his life, cheerfully taking pulls, ripping the legs off the other racers. Moran was impassive, but his form on the bike showed no signs of fatigue. Greg’s brow was furrowed with effort, but he too had impressive form. 

Mycroft wanted to throw up. He was gripping his bars so hard, his fingers were cramping. His legs ached with lactic acid built up during his uphill charge. 

Moran attacked! 

Greg was on him in a heartbeat. Allam and Jonesy looked at each other and began to chase — neither even considered asking Mycroft to pursue his teammate. He sat behind them, the pace still punishing, but without having to pull through, he began to recover. The gel took effect and his body processed the lactic acid. His legs started to feel a little better. He drank down the rest of his water and tossed the empty bottle towards the fans lining the road.

Greg and Moran were not working together — it gave Jonesy, Allam and Mycroft the opportunity to drag themselves into contact. 

The moment the groups combined Greg attacked furiously. He caught Moran out and had a gap! They were all pelting through Sienna now, towards the finish — Greg passed under the red kite* signifying there was only one more kilometre to the line, Moran followed five seconds behind.

The Via Santa Caterina loomed.

Strade Bianchi began and finished in Siena on the historic Piazza del Campo.* Via Santa Caterina was an ancient street that led to the centre of the medieval city — it was a narrow and extremely steep road, roughly paved with cobblestones. It would decide the race.

Greg was on the cobbled climb, powering up the grade. Moran was chasing hard.

It _hurt_! Mycroft’s legs screamed as he pushed himself up the precipitous hill. The cobblestones were jarring, and they sucked the power from his body. He wanted to quit, to cry, to roll in a ball and never look at a bicycle again.

Allam blew up.

Mycroft and Jonesy outpaced the older man and it reminded Mycroft that they were all suffering — it wasn’t just him! This road — this race — hurt everyone! And it was almost over! All he had to do was persevere!

 _He could do this_! Mycroft could climb better than Jonesy! He could beat the Australian. _Mycroft could be on the podium_!

Somewhere deep inside, he found the strength and began to pull ahead of Jonesy. The climb was _endless_ , but all he had to do was ride faster than the other man!

He crested with a gap! Mycroft began the twisting descent into the Piazza del Campo. He knew how to descend! Even exhausted, at the very end of his tether, the geometry of the corners was plain. Mycroft _flew_!

In his ear, Hugo Charpentier was screaming! _Greg had won_!

Mycroft’s heart swelled with pride! He was so happy!

But Jonesy was chasing! He was closing the gap between them! Knowing he could not outsprint the Australian, Mycroft made himself as aerodynamic as possible and took the last corner dangerously fast. He could see the finish line!

He crossed a wheel ahead of Jonesy!

Mycroft raised a fist in triumph, celebrating Greg’s win — and his own.

Someone in an Amstel jacket grabbed Mycroft’s bike right before he fell over. Other arms wrapped around him and helped him from the bike. Mycroft’s body folded and he found himself on the tarmac — he couldn’t catch his breath. He lay down, panting, his eyes screwed closed.

It was a minute before he could sit up and take the recovery drink from Anthea. Someone whacked him on the back. Mycroft turned.

“Good race, Mate!” It was Jonesy, smiling cheerfully. “Good on ya!”

“Er… thank you?” Mycroft heard himself say.

“That’s a wicked kick you have uphill.” Jonesy enthused. “Brilliant race!” The Australian patted him again before he left. 

Anthea helped Mycroft to his feet, and he was herded by the man in the Amstel jacket, his UCI chaperone, and a clot of press with cameras towards the team bus.

Climbing the steps, he found Greg, grin shining joyfully. He turned to Mycroft and they spontaneously wrapped their arms around each other in wordless celebration.

Mycroft was enveloped in Greg’s scent — sharp sweat and dust, heat and a hint of menthol. It transported him to a time when he was completely happy. He wanted to cling to the happiness, but distant alarm bells sounded in his mind. Danger. Mycroft pulled away.

“Knew you could do it.” Greg mumbled as he let go. His cheeks had turned warm and red.

“ _You_ did it.” Mycroft replied, his euphoric high burning brightly, drowning out the alarm. “You won!”

“Couldn’t’ve done it without you…” Greg abruptly realised they were surrounded by Amstel support people. “Couldn’t have done it without all of you!” He said more loudly. “But can you believe this one? Spent _hours_ in the break, still had enough left to work for me — _and_ finished on the podium!”

Hugo Charpentier hugged them both to his chest, laughing gleefully. “You two! I love cyclocross!” He boomed. “Now come on, get changed. The press are camped out in front of the bus — and you have the podium!”

Just then, Julian Faure climbed onto the bus, smiling broadly. He held out his hand and Greg slapped his into it. Julian gripped his hand and pulled him into a bro-hug. “Sealed the deal, Lestrade!” He crowed. 

“Yeah, thanks to you.” Greg told him. 

Faure congratulated Mycroft as well, patting his shoulder happily. “See how it feels, when we win? We work together for the win! Eh boss?”

“My wolfpack are winners.” Hugo agreed, ruffling Faure’s sweat-matted hair.

Mycroft washed and changed into clean Amstel kit, pulling on the fleece-lined tights that covered his thin legs. It was brisk outdoors. Now that his core temperature had dropped, he knew he’d be cold. He layered a long-sleeved Amstel jersey over a wool, long-sleeved base layer.

…that Mummy had given him at Christmas.

It hit him hard, dissipating the last of the adrenaline. Had Mummy watched Mycroft race? Did she know that he’d earned a place on the podium?

Was she proud of him?

Mycroft shook off the thought. She’d left him, he needed to get on with his life. But it still hurt, not having her... her approval...

His brother would gladly swap places with him, never speak to Mummy again. Sherlock had never sought her goodwill.

Mycroft sighed.

Sherlock had had a rocky start at boarding school. He had not gotten on well with the other students, acting brash and arrogant and generally alienating everyone.

Until someone discovered that Sherlock raced cyclocross. He earned a place on the school’s cycling team, and his teammates discovered how hard and long he trained. A grudging respect was born.

Watson had told Mycroft that several of the school’s cyclists had begun to tag along when he trained with Sherlock — and Sherlock took gleeful satisfaction in dropping them and leaving them behind every time. 

Sherlock himself reported that the chemistry labs were ‘acceptable’ and that not all the teachers were complete idiots. High praise from the world’s most critical fifteen-year-old.

The distance from Mummy and Father was doing him a world of good — though every other text Mycroft received from his brother contained a complaint about having to skype with Mummy, or that she was staying at Garin House _yet again_ , insisting that Sherlock visit…

He said that Father was attempting to keep her in England.

As Mycroft waited behind the podium for his name to be called, he recalled how he’d almost thanked his father at the end of the single contact he’d had with the man since the abandonment. The words had felt like acid in his mouth. After he’d rung off, he’d swallowed it down and the acid filled his stomach. He’d had trouble eating that day.

He was jarred from his reverie by the arrival of Sebastian Moran — he body checked Mycroft as he walked past, hard enough to make him stumble back against the wall. 

“Hey, there’s no need for that.” Greg told the Sphere rider. He held himself back from touching Mycroft, from asking if he were OK.

Moran glared at Greg. His aggressive manner was atypical — most racers were friendly off the bike. Most racers would have congratulated Greg, as Jonesy had congratulated Mycroft — it had been a race well-fought. There should not be hard feelings.

Mycroft remembered Moran’s consuming hunger for the win. 

Abruptly he was thankful that he had not signed with Sphere.

Greg was pulled away to greet some VIP fans, leaving Mycroft with Moran’s full attention. He raised an eyebrow — more of a comment than a question: _What is your problem_?

Moran smirked. “How gallant.” He sneered at Mycroft, gesturing lazily after Greg. “You have a protector.”

“Do I need one?” Mycroft asked with perfect equanimity. 

There was a flash of irritation that Mycroft was not intimidated, quickly hidden. “Jimmy’s not happy that you turned us down. He has his heart set on _having you_. Seeing you out there, I understand why.”

 _Having him_? Mycroft was certain the sexual connotation was purposeful. He suppressed a shudder. “Jimmy?” He asked calmly, as if he’d asked about the weather. 

“Jim.” Moran told him. “Jim Moriarty.

“Ah. Well…” Mycroft’s name was announced onstage as third place. “That’s my cue.” Walking away from Moran felt like a narrow escape. 

The podium ceremony went smoothly but with an undercurrent of awkwardness. Moran went through the motions, but his fury was palpable to Mycroft. He wanted the top step. In Moran’s mind, it belonged to him.

When it was over, Moran disappeared quickly. “What a twat.” Greg mumbled.

“Indeed.” Mycroft agreed. He determined then and there that he would steer clear of Sebastian Moran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for sticking with this story! There will be lots more exciting racing. Mycroft will discover what kind of road racer he is — can he live up to his grandfather's legacy? Can he surpass it? Greg's child will be born and inevitably change his life. Sebastian Moran and Jim Moriarty want Mycroft to ride for their team — what will they do to get what they want? And Rupert Yates is lurking on the sidelines.
> 
> ****  
> *Rotating paceline - The essence of group riding is riding the paceline. It allows cyclists to travel faster with less effort and provides a better social experience. (It is also a foundation of racing.) Pacelines do have some inherent danger and require communication among the riders. A ROTATING paceline requires more focus and greater skills but is very satisfying to be part of. In a rotating paceline there is an advancing (faster) line of riders and a retreating (slower) line of riders.
> 
> The retreating line is on whichever side the wind is coming from. If it is a headwind a tailwind or no wind, usually the retreating line will be on the right side and the advancing line will be on the left. (The opposite of the picture above).
> 
> The key to a rotating paceline is that when the rider at the front of the advancing line clears the rider who is on the front of the retreating line, the advancing rider moves into the retreating line and softens up his pace. The rider who was behind him continues the pace of the advancing line until that rider switches over. The rider in the advancing line should NEVER surge. The idea is that you ride to the front and float to the back in a constant rotation. You change your speed by "soft-pedaling" as you switch to the retreating line and increasing your pedal pressure as you switch from the retreating line to the advancing line.
> 
> *Echelon - A line of riders seeking maximum drafting in a crosswind, resulting in a diagonal line across the road.
> 
> *Monument - The Monuments are five classic cycle races generally considered to be the oldest, hardest and most prestigious one-day events in road cycling. They each have a long history and specific individual characteristics.
> 
> *Vuelta a España - (Tour of Spain) is an annual twenty-one stage bicycle race, like the Tour de France, primarily held in Spain, while also occasionally making passes through nearby countries. 
> 
> *Red Kite - The final kilometer of Classics and Grand Tour stages is marked with an archway from which hangs the flamme rouge—the red kite. Its passage marks the greatest drama of the race, a ratcheting up of tension and anticipation that culminates in the winner’s celebration.
> 
> *Piazza del Campo - the principal public space of the historic center of Siena, Tuscany, Italy and is regarded as one of Europe's greatest medieval squares.


	2. PARIS-NICE PROLOGUE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft begins his first stage race.

Avoiding Sebastian Moran was more difficult than Mycroft had hoped.

He was starting his very first pro tour stage race, Paris-Nice, and he could not have been more excited! Eight days! Eight stages starting in Paris and moving farther south and east each day to finish in Nice.

Amstel had sent a team weighted towards riders to support their star sprinter, Heinrich Braun. (Who was not German, Austrian or Swiss, but a product of the American melting pot.) Mycroft was just getting to know most of the racers — he recognised them from the training camp in Annecy but had barely spoken to many of them there. He would be rooming with Mikel Vitola, a rolleur* in his late twenties.

As they dropped their duffels in their room, Mikel eyed Mycroft with disguised trepidation. He was from Latvia, a country not known for its comfort with homosexuality. The western Europeans were much more blasé about it.

But Mikel was cordial, and nothing would dim Mycroft’s enthusiasm for his first stage race.

In the week before the race, Mycroft had practised with Braun’s lead-out train — everyone contributed — but his special assignment was to get in breakaways in the mountainous stages and (if the stars aligned) win a stage. After his performance at Strade Bianchi, Hugo Charpentier had told him it was not only possible but attainable.

Privately, Mycroft’s goal was to finish all eight stages without crashing. Or finishing outside the time cut.* Or embarrassing himself some other way.

Two days before the race began, Michael Van Winder, a Belgian rouleur, snapped his collarbone in a training ride and Greg Lestrade was subbed in.

Mycroft felt intensely ambivalent about that. On one hand, it would be comforting to have someone he knew — who knew him — in the race. On the other, their relationship, though much calmer, was still fraught with inconvenient emotions. And he knew that Greg’s goals lay in the long, hard one day races, like Strade Bianchi, not in stage races.

But neither one had been consulted. Greg cheerfully took his place in the lead-out train and perused the race book. There was a stage right before they got to the high mountains that he thought would be perfect for a breakaway. A breakaway he could drive. 

Saturday, the first day of the race, was a bright day with a wintry chill. The stage was a prologue, a very short individual time trial. The racers would start separately, one minute apart, and race against the clock for 6.4 kilometres.

The purpose of the prologue was to create some time gaps between the favourites to win the overall — and to have the winner of the prologue in the yellow leader’s jersey for stage one on Sunday. 

For riders like Mycroft and Greg, it was simply something to get through. Neither were expected to post competitive times — indeed, Mycroft had such paltry experience with time trialling, his only goal was to cross the finish line without making any major mistakes. 

Wanting to be as prepared as possible, Mycroft dressed in his full-length tights and wind jacket and met up with his teammates, Tom Wallays, Cees Van Dyke and Heinrich Braun, to ride the course.

Wallays was a time trial specialist — one of the men with a real chance of winning the prologue. Mycroft hoped to gain valuable insight from shadowing the big rider. 

Jens Shillinger, Mycroft’s new coach, had had him practicing on the stiff, aerodynamic time trial bike. But he still found the position — recognisable by the aero bars or ‘skis’ extending from the handlebars, in which the rider rested his forearms — awkward and uncomfortable. It was not unlike the position he adopted for descending, but he had to hold it for the entire race. And the time trial bike was much less flexible — it was rigid with almost no give, and not nearly as responsive as his road and ‘cross bikes. It did not allay his discomfort that though there were shift levers on the ends of the skis, there were no brakes. The brakes were in the usual place on the handlebars (which were themselves not in the usual ‘bullhorn’ shape, but shaved down to thin, straight ribs of carbon fibre). To reach the brakes, Mycroft had to sit up a bit and move his hands out to the bars. There was no braking in an emergency, it required forethought. 

At some point it would become second nature. But that day was not today.

He listened closely to all of Wallays advice. He was incredibly thorough, riding through the corners multiple times for the optimum angle. He paid attention to the smallest details — the condition of the tarmac, the style of the barriers, the prevailing winds and the weather forecast — looking for the fastest way through the entire course.

“It’s dry today.” Wallays observed. “Riding on the painted line…” He pointed at the white lines in the centre of the street delineating traffic lanes. “On the painted line, there is less rolling resistance. I always try to do that, unless it’s wet.” If it were wet, the white lines painted on the pavement became dangerously slippery… but if it were dry… Mycroft stowed the knowledge, noting where the white lines traversed the course.

Each racer was assigned a start time at one-minute intervals. Greg was scheduled to be one of the first riders, and Mycroft would go off 46th.

Tom Wallays would be the 168th racer to start — tenth from last. The real contenders were always scheduled at the end. Based on the data from the earlier racers, they would know how fast they needed to ride to have a competitive time. The final rider was the winner of last year’s edition of Paris-Nice, Jim Moriarty. He would know the finishing times of all his rivals, know exactly how fast to ride in order to win the prologue — or simply to remain level with the other general classification riders.

Mycroft was curious about Moriarty. Moran had made a poor impression, but that shouldn’t bias Mycroft against his teammates. Moriarty was the best stage racer of his generation — he’d won the last four editions of the Tour de France, two Vuelta a Españas and a Giro d’Italia, along with numerous shorter stage races like Paris-Nice.

Mycroft had declined the generous offer from Sphere — he hadn’t wanted to limit his opportunities to working for Moriarty. But that didn’t mean he didn’t admire the man — he was a huge talent. Mycroft had watched every one of this grand tour wins on the television, marvelling at the man’s strength and tactical cunning. Racing with the man was an honour! Mycroft was looking forward to seeing him in action.

\---

Mycroft warmed up meticulously before the prologue, spinning the pedals of the TT bike on his turbo trainer, going through a routine of aerobic and anaerobic efforts, Wagner playing loudly through his earPods. He was slightly nervous about missing his start — the clock would begin keeping time whether he began his ride or not. Even at this level, a racer occasionally missed his appointed time and seconds, or even minutes ticked by, inflating his finishing time. This was not a mistake Mycroft intended to make.

But he also didn’t want to loiter uselessly behind the start house watching a dozen racers go off.

Ten minutes before his start time, he switched from opera to ocean sounds. Mycroft focussed on feeling empty. Cold. At peace.

Five minutes before his start time, Alun pulled his bike off the turbo and changed the rear wheel to the solid, aerodynamic disc wheel* Mycroft would be using for the race.

Four minutes before his start time, Mycroft strapped the aerodynamic helmet to his head and shed the long-sleeved jersey he’d been wearing over his skinsuit. He let Anthea tape the radio receiver to his ear.

Three minutes before his start time, Mycroft rolled over towards the start. A rider was in the start house, climbing onto his bike. The rider directly before Mycroft, waited. 

He had avoided his first opportunity to make a mistake — he would begin the time trial on time.

Two minutes before his start time, the rider ahead of him entered the start house and mounted his bike, clipping into the pedals whilst the official held the bike stationary.

55 seconds before his start time, Mycroft’s bike was lifted into the start house and held up by the official. Mycroft clambered on it, telling himself to trust the man holding the bike up. He clipped his feet securely into the pedals, poised to begin.

Ten seconds before his start time, Mycroft poked the ‘start button’ on his bike computer and gripped the handlebars.

He took a deep breath and let it out.

The official counted down from five. After ‘one’ a tone sounded and Mycroft pushed hard on the pedals, launching himself out of the start house, down the little ramp and onto the course.

He avoided the second opportunity to embarrass himself, he did not crash on the start ramp.

6.4 kilometres was so short, that it required a violent, 100 percent effort from start to finish. As quickly as possible, Mycroft settled his forearms onto the aero bars and began to shift, spinning up the gears to the hardest, the one that would make him go the fastest, and spun his legs around as rapidly as he could. 

“Good, Holmes. Good.” Hugo Charpentier said in his ear — he was driving Mycroft’s follow car with Alun and his spare TT bike. If anything went wrong — flat tyre, crash, anything — Alun would have the extra bike down from the roof in seconds. He would push Mycroft off, running down the street with his hand on the back of the saddle until Mycroft outpaced him.

Mycroft wished with all his heart to avoid needing the spare bike.

The course was flat, but technical — there were four turns and one roundabout between the start and the finish. How well a rider navigated through them would be the difference between the winner and everyone else.

It was maths — all maths. Even on the rigid, uncomfortable time trial bike, Mycroft could see the best, the fastest line through each corner. He knew if he needed to slow or if he could take it at speed. 

But it was different doing it at race-pace. Mycroft almost came to grief in the very first corner, skimming so close to the barriers, he felt it brush his hip. 

His back wheel skidded, and he shifted his weight frantically to stay balanced upon the bike.

Mycroft’s adrenaline, already pumping, went nuclear and his hands shook where they gripped the skis. All he could hear was his panting breath and his beating heart.

… which sounded like the ocean…

Mycroft forced himself to be calm and focussed, listening to the static of his harsh breathing. He pumped his legs in a staccato rhythm, keeping his back perfectly straight and still. He found the white line in the centre of the road and put his wheels on it. It was hypnotic.

The next corner required him to slow slightly. He sat up — the added resistance of his upper body checking his speed — moving his hands out to his brake levers. He feathered the rear brake, bleeding enough momentum to swoop through the right-hander. It was perfect! Immediately afterwards, Mycroft dropped his arms back onto the skis and focussed on accelerating. He needed to go as fast as he possibly could on the straightaways.

He did not need to slow for the roundabout. He stayed low on the bike, hands gripping the aerobars and never stopped pedalling, simply leaning his body very slightly to the right and then to the left until he exited the road furniture.*

His lungs hurt, jagged pain cutting through him with every breath. Mycroft ignored it. Six point four kilometres was nothing. He could do anything for six point four kilometres!

The penultimate corner required him to brake. This was the most technical of the corners. As Wallays had demonstrated, Mycroft sat up, feathering the rear brake and took it like he’d take his road bike through. The time trial bike didn’t want to turn the same way, but Mycroft muscled it into compliance.

He stretched out in the skis, pedalling hard. The last corner was gentle, he wouldn’t need to brake — he’d barely need to shift his weight. Mycroft flew through it and found himself on the finishing straight. He focussed on the white line. He focussed on spinning the pedals as quickly as he could — now was the time to leave _everything_ on the road! If he had any energy left after he crossed the line, he hadn’t worked hard enough!

Almost choking on his rasping breath, Mycroft flogged his aching thighs, spinning his hardest gear — the line was so far away! He thought he’d never reach it!

Oh God! His lungs were bursting!

And then he’d crossed!

Abruptly he heard Hugo in his ear — he’d been talking and shouting the entire time and Mycroft had paid no attention. He was shouting now. Mycroft pulled the receiver off his ear and let it dangle.

He coasted, braking. As soon as Mycroft stopped the bike, he bent over the bars, gasping for breath.

He was still coughing over his handlebars when the Amstel jackets arrived to ward off the cameras, followed closely by the officials and his chaperone.

Then Hugo Charpentier appeared and hugged Mycroft hard.

“Holmes! That was brilliant!” He boomed. “You didn’t tell me could time trial!”

“I can’t... I mean, I haven’t...” Mycroft disentangled himself from the director’s embrace, trying to wipe a thick thread of saliva off of his chin surreptitiously. “I didn’t embarrass myself I hope.”

“No! Holmes, you’re first! You set the new best time! 7:15! You’re _thirty-eight seconds faster_ than everyone else who’s finished!”

Mycroft blinked, attempting to assimilate that information. “It’s... it’s early yet.” He said. Another one hundred and thirty something racers had yet to ride.

“It is, but until someone beats your time, _you_ are the leader! You have to sit on the throne!”

“Throne?!” Mycroft followed Hugo’s gesture to the little stage where the press conducted interviews after the race. There was a big, golden throne — a theatrical prop — in the centre. Standing up and making his way off the stage was the previous race leader, Jonesy. He saw Mycroft looking and waved cheerily.

As Alun took his bike, he patted Mycroft on the back. “Good job, boss.”

Mycroft was allowed to wash and change before reporting to the leader’s throne. Thank goodness! The technically advanced skinsuit was so tightly stretched over his lean frame that its thin fabric hid nothing. _Nothing_! It was also fairly transparent and made Mycroft feel uncomfortably like he was on display. His nipples were clearly visible.

The bus Amstel had brought to the stage race was enormous, there was a little cabin in the back set aside for the racers to clean up and change. Mycroft cleaned his face and wiped the sweat from his skin, then he layered on his winter gear. He poked at his unruly auburn curls, half defeated by the helmet, half crazy with freedom. He took his time. He was not looking forward to the throne.

Perhaps if he took long enough, another rider would beat his time and Mycroft would be spared.

As he emerged, Greg appeared, climbing onto the bus. He had been the fifth rider off the start ramp today — he preferred to get a time trial out of the way as early as possible. He’d saved his energy for the upcoming road stages, riding fast enough to qualify but not so fast as to set a competitive time. 

He was wearing street clothes, looking as if he had not raced at all.

“Oh my God! My!” Greg exclaimed, grinning. “That was amazing!”

“Was it?” Mycroft asked. 

Greg must have heard the hesitation or seen something in Mycroft’s expression. His grin faded. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I don’t know.” Mycroft said, abruptly glad that Greg knew him so well, glad that he was _there_. “I didn’t expect this.”

Greg’s hand was warm on his shoulder. “Give yourself a minute, Mycroft.” He said. “You exceeded everyone’s expectations, that’s a good thing. You might even win this!”

“There are over one hundred more racers. My time will not stand.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But you should be proud of yourself! I’m proud of you!” Greg’s cheeks pinked self-consciously. “The whole team is proud of you!”

The team was proud of him! It filled him with warmth.

He nodded, and Greg’s arm wrapped around his shoulder, pulling Mycroft against his strong chest. It felt safe. “I brought something for you.” Greg said.

“Oh?”

Greg pulled a _casquette_ * from his back pocket — one of the iconic cloth caps that cyclists had been wearing for over a hundred years. It was similar to a ball cap, but softer and thinner with less of a bill. This one was red with two gold stripes starting on the bill, travelling over the crown of the head and ending at the back. The underside of the bill said ‘Amstel’ — it was clearly visible if the rider folded the bill up.

“That’s… I love it!” It looked a bit like the _casquette_ Roman Garin had habitually worn — it too was red, but the stripes had been black. “Where did you get it?”

Greg shrugged. “There are a few floating around. I know you like them.” He pressed it into Mycroft’s hands.

The cloth was limp, not holding its shape in between his fingers. He fitted it on his head, tucking his tousled curls underneath, and returned to the changing room for the mirror. 

The face that looked back at him was Roman Garin’s.

Or it could have been. Mycroft had been told he favoured his grandfather — and he’d seen the resemblance in photos… but he had never been confronted with it like this. 

Mycroft wasn’t sure what he felt about it.

“Holmes…?” Charpentier ran up the steps in the front of the bus. “Come on! You’re needed.”

Shaking his head to clear it, Mycroft thanked Greg as he followed Charpentier of the bus. There an entourage latched on to trail him to the stage: Anthea, two race officials, his chaperone, an Amstel soigneur and the team’s press officer.

He was escorted to the throne and made to sit upon the purple cushion on its seat. Mycroft felt ridiculous. 

A big camera for the telly was pointed directly at him. He looked into its lens uneasily aware he was being filmed. It wasn’t like an interview — this camera never turned off. The director of the television broadcast would cut to him sporadically and Mycroft would not know when he was on television and when he was not. He had to behave as if he were on telly as long as he sat on the absurd throne.

_It won’t be long._ He told himself. _Someone will ride it faster and I will be allowed to leave this fishbowl._

Anthea gave him his recovery drink and his phone. It seemed like it would be…. _rude_ to check his phone on camera. Even sipping his protein smoothie under its watchful eye felt vulgar.

Mummy would be appalled.

Phoebe, Amstel’s press officer pushed forward and held her smartphone up to Mycroft’s face. “Take a look — is this correct?”

He squinted at the bullet pointed list.

“This is about me.”

“Yeah — your time will stand for a while. This is your first stage race?”

Mycroft felt vaguely nauseated. “Yes.”

“And your grandfather was Roman Garin?” Phoebe sounded like she couldn’t believe her luck.

“Yes.”

“Excellent.” She crowed. “This is the way to make an impression! They always need stuff to jabber about, they’ll talk about you all afternoon! They’ll talk about _Amstel_ all afternoon.”

“Who?”

“The commentators. I’ve gotten requests for your info in four languages. You’re a star Holmes!” She said, hurrying off.

Anthea rolled her eyes. She could — she was safely off camera.

Phoebe was right. The commentators talked throughout the entire prologue — all three and a half hours — giving stats on the riders, answering questions posed on social media, speculating on who might win, exclaiming over crashes, critiquing each racers’ form, and whatever else they could think to say to fill the time. Whoever sat on the throne would be a hot topic.

The realisation made him blush. He hoped he was not currently on television.

Mycroft tried not to stare into the camera. It was not nearly so polite — its single eye was trained on him like a monstrous cyclops. He might agree to be devoured if it ended his reign as leader of the race.

His phone buzzed and reflexively Mycroft looked at the screen. He had a text.

||Greg Lestrade|| 13:12  
* _Relax._ *

||The Iceman|| 13:13  
* _How? I’m sat on a preposterous throne with a camera pointed at my face!_ *

||Greg Lestrade|| 13:13  
* _Pretend the camera isn’t there. Sit back and watch the race._ *

Ugh! That was easy for him to say.

||Greg Lestrade|| 13:15  
* _This is your own fault. If you weren’t so bloody GOOD at everything…_ *

||The Iceman|| 13:16  
* _You are not helping._ *

||Greg Lestrade|| 13:15  
* _Yes, I am. Relax._ *

Fifteen racers had finished since Mycroft sat down on the throne and none of them were even close to beating his time. He watched as another crossed the line, checked his time on the jumbotron — 8:02! Disgusted, Mycroft turned his attention to the riders on the course, watched the seconds tick by as they raced.

||Rupert Yates|| 13:18  
* _Cracking race! You’re the cagey one — you didn’t mention that you could time trial._ *

||Mycroft Holmes|| 13:20  
* _I am as surprised as everyone else._ *

||Rupert Yates|| 13:21  
* _Hidden talents come to light!_ *

* _Stop looking so miserable_ *

||Mycroft Holmes|| 13:22  
* _You CAN see upon what I’m sitting?_ *

||Rupert Yates|| 13:22  
* _It does strain the dignity a bit. Oh the tribulations of being the best._ *

Rupert’s jocularity made Mycroft feel slightly foolish. Yes, he hated this… but it was harmless. If he thought he had a chance in hell of actually winning, he might feel differently. But he was just _sitting here_. It was a shocking waste of time.

||John Watson|| 13:37  
* _Smile for god’s sake, Iceman. You look like your puppy just died._ *

Watson was in Italy for a different race. Clearly, he had time on his hands.

||John Watson|| 13:39  
* _Just imagine everyone in the audience is naked. Hairy clods so fat their bellies hide their cocks._ *

||Mycroft Holmes|| 13:40  
* _YOU ARE NOT HELPING!_ *

It occurred to Mycroft that Watson wanted him to react on camera. Well, he’d got his wish — Mycroft’s cheeks were flaming.

||John Watson|| 13:40  
* _Then imagine they’re all fit blokes, their cocks hard for you._ *

||Mycroft Holmes|| 13:40  
* _I’m blocking this number._ *

||John Watson|| 13:40  
* _LOL. I just texted your brother, told him to turn on the telly. You should wave._ *

||SH|| 13:49  
* _You couldn’t help yourself. You had to show off._ *

||MH|| 13:49  
* _Had I known a throne was involved, I would have ridden more slowly._ *

||SH|| 13:50  
* _No you wouldn’t._ *

||MH|| 13:50  
* _No. I suppose I wouldn’t have._ *

||Coach Jens Schilinger|| 14:01  
* _You lost 3.2 seconds in the first corner. That was sloppy._ *

* _IMPORTANT: You need to be tested in a wind tunnel._ *

* _It will shave seconds off your time. Maybe ten or even fifteen seconds._ *

* _Not even the best time trialist will be ten seconds faster than you today._ *

Mycroft allowed that to sink in. He did not doubt that Schilinger was correct — he would have analysed the data obsessively, the course, the wind, the weather, each racer’s fastest times on similar courses…

Shilinger thought he could actually win!

Mycroft had never considered specialising in time trialling. He loved cyclocross — the excitement, the skill — but in road cycling he’d always thought of himself as a climber. Like his grandfather.

For the first time, it occurred to Mycroft that his cycling career was based on assumptions made before his birth. 

He no longer had to conform to Mummy’s expectations.

The thought was uncomfortable.

For ninety-nine interminable minutes, Mycroft sat on the throne in front of the television camera, pondering his career choices. He watched rider after rider come across the finish line. The closest to him was sixteen seconds slower.

Was it possible that he could actually _win_? Mycroft had never entertained the possibility... no, the specialists would be faster.

Tom Wallays was in the start house, resplendent in his world time trial champion’s rainbow skinsuit. His TT bike, aero helmet _and_ his rear disc wheel were gaudily painted with the rainbow stripes. 

It would be gauche if he weren’t the very best in the world. Wallays had held the title three years running.

Mycroft’s ordeal on the throne would end in slightly more than seven minutes.

He held his breath as his teammate rode the course — Wallays navigated that first corner perfectly, and immediately returned to his aerodynamic tuck. The muscles on his thighs bulged as he turned the pedals over. Mycroft knew his front chainring had more teeth than anyone else’s in the race — it was more difficult to spin the pedals, but it moved the bicycle faster. Wallays had the power for it. Wallays had power to spare.

Mycroft watched as he rode the white line down the centre of the road. The crowds to either side of the course were screaming and cheering, but Wallays didn’t register them at all. Mycroft now knew how that felt, to hear nothing but your own ragged breath. 

He made the gruelling ordeal look effortless, gracefully swooping through the turns. His upper body was completely still, only his legs moved. It was beautiful.

Wallays flew through the last corner onto the finishing stretch. Mycroft watched the seconds tick by — 6:50, 6:51, 6:52…

The close-up of Wallays’ face showed a rictus of determination. 

6:59, 7:00, 7:01… could he finish in the next nine seconds? He still seemed so far from the line!

Then he crossed, and the clock stopped. Mycroft forced himself to look.

7:08!

Three seconds faster than Mycroft!

The relief was intense. For the first time, he smiled at the camera. He stood up and marched off the stage. 

“Holmes. Don’t go far.” Mycroft turned and found a race official on his heels. “You’re still on the podium. For now.”

“Oh… right.” Mycroft said. “I’ll just be watching…” He gestured at the jumbotron.

The man shrugged and walked off leaving only the chaperone. 

The racer after Wallays finished with a time of 7:35.

The giant screen switched to the start house, showing a rider preparing to launch. He was wearing a national champion’s jersey that Mycroft didn’t recognise — there was red, green blue and black… South Africa. The rider was the national time trial champion of South Africa. The official counted him down — five fingers, four fingers, three fingers, two fingers, one — the racer pushed off.

He was a Sphere rider. Instead of sunglasses, a shaded visor curved out from his helmet, it covered the top half of his face and was likely quite aerodynamic. 

Abruptly Mycroft recognised Sebastian Moran.

The camera stayed with Moran as he sailed through the first corner — avoiding Mycroft’s wobbling mistake. Then it switched to the next racer coming across the finish line.

Two more racers crossed the line — Mycroft was still in second place. 

The scene went back to the start house where a small man in a black skinsuit with a scarlet stripe from neck to waist, was mounting his time trial bike. His helmet too was black and had the shaded visor pulled down over his eyes. His bike was completely black — not even the sponsor’s name showed — and his disc wheel was lurid red. Mycroft had watched Jim Moriarty race too often to mistake him for anyone else. 

Moriarty was a good, not great, time trialist. The small stature that made him perfect for climbing mountains, hindered him slightly in the race against the clock. But he never lost too much time — sometimes it seemed by force of will alone. He definitely had the right mindset for time trialling, the singular focus.

He looked extremely focussed now.

The tone sounded, and Moriarty started his race. The motorcycle camera followed him, just as it had Wallays and another was still following Moran. Moran was riding close to Wallays’ time. 

Another racer finished well outside Mycroft’s time.

He caught sight of Moran exiting the last corner and sprinting towards the finish. He checked the time clock — he was close, very close, to Wallays winning time. Mycroft found that he did not want Moran to beat his teammate.

Moran’s mouth was wide and gasping and a long string of phlegm hung from his nose. He _wanted_ this. Just as he had _wanted_ the win at Strade Bianchi.

7:06, 7:07, 7:08, 7:09 — Moran hadn’t beaten Tom Wallays! 7:10, 7:11 — he crossed the line. Did he have the same time as Mycroft? He would have to wait for the official results to know.

Moriarty, the last rider to start, was the last rider to finish. He posted a time of 7:20 — fourth fastest and best of the GC* contenders. As he crossed the line, Mycroft had his first glimpse of the Sphere leader in person. He was even smaller than Mycroft had expected, so slight it was almost feminine. He sat up and the scarlet stripe down the front of his skinsuit looked like a gash, like he’d been gutted from neck to navel. It was a disturbing visual. 

Mycroft watched as he coasted past. Two more scarlet slashes cut his thighs from buttocks to the hem of the shorts. The round, red Sphere logo decorated his back, looking for all the world like the flag of Japan — if it had been black instead of white. There were no other sponsor logos anywhere on his kit. That was exceedingly unusual.

Hugo Charpentier marched past and called out a clipped, “Holmes! With me!” It shook Mycroft from his perusal of Jim Moriarty, and he followed the Amstel director. Belatedly, he realised that he was on the podium! 

He didn’t know if he were on the second step or the third. 

“Sphere is protesting the results.” Hugo said. “It’s rubbish.”

“Er… what are the results?” Mycroft asked. 

“Provisionally, you’re second by three tenths of a second. Sphere is contesting it — they have no grounds!”

They arrived at a tent and Charpentier hesitated. “Wait here.” He said to Mycroft, then stalked angrily into the meeting already in process. Mycroft counted five black and red Sphere jackets amongst the officials.

A glance told him that Sphere was losing the argument. Mycroft turned away, not caring to see any more. 

The entire day had been stressful. A podium place went a long way towards making up for it… but the protest just multiplied the tension in Mycroft’s shoulders.

“Mycroft, I heard Sphere was contesting the result. Is it true?” Rupert Yates, along with a gaggle of journalists, had jogged to the official’s tent.

“Hello, Rupert.” Mycroft said, raising an eyebrow.

Rupert laughed. “I’m working, Mycroft, I get a pass when I’m working.”

Mycroft favoured him with a small smile. “Unfortunately, I cannot help you. No one has told me anything.”

“Ah, you insult me by claiming ignorance!” Rupert smiled. “At least say ‘no comment.’” 

“You are Mycroft Holmes, yes?!” A French journalist interrupted. “But you must be! You are the very picture of Roman Garin!” He crowded closer, displacing Rupert. “Is it true, that this is your first time trial?” 

_“Oui.”_ Mycroft answered, hearing the tattoo of camera shutters. _“Je n'ai pas couru contre la montre depuis l'âge de quatorze ans.”_

The journalist grinned at Mycroft’s perfect French and shot off a rapid-fire series of questions.

“Show off.” Rupert mumbled between Mycroft’s answers.

Mycroft felt his lips twitch. Rupert Yates had a knack for putting him in a good mood.

Hugo Charpentier emerged from the tent with the coterie of UCI officials and five disgruntled people from Sphere. They answered none of the questions the press called out, the lead official waiting for quiet. 

“The official results have been certified.” She said. “The podium ceremony will commence in five minutes.”

Charpentier used the parade of officials to escort Mycroft out of the scrum of journalists. “Bloody Sphere.” He muttered. “Think they can buy off anyone.”

Tom Wallays was already backstage. Charpentier shook his hand, his face clearing at the sight of the World Champion. 

“Nice job, Holmes!” Wallays crowed patting Mycroft on the back. “Your data was great — really helped my ride! If you hadn’t cocked up that first corner, you might have been on the top step.” He didn’t sound grudging in the least.

“Nerves.” Mycroft explained. “Inexperience.”

“You’re going to be unstoppable.”

“I don’t know. I’m sure I can stop him.” Mycroft jumped at the sound of Moran’s voice. 

He hadn’t heard Moran walk up the steps behind him. The man continued walking to the far side of the waiting area, glaring at Mycroft.

“That bloke is a dick.” Wallays said. “Ignore him.”

“I’m not sure that would be wise.” Mycroft said under his breath.

Tom Wallays stopped and pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I’ve heard some things.” He said. “Don’t know if they’re true so I don’t want to accuse him of anything… I’ll just say, don’t take anything from him.”

“What did you hear?” Mycroft pressed.

Wallays huffed. “A mate took a bottle of water from him. It was in a race, he thought Moran was being a mate, offering him a spare when he needed one. He ended up on the side of the road doubled over with stomach cramps. Had to abandon.” The time triallist shifted his weight. “Could have been coincidence… it was probably just a coincidence. Probably just a stomach bug…”

“But your friend didn’t think so.”

“No. He was convinced Moran had poisoned him. But why would he do that?”

Mycroft considered. “Had your friend beaten him?”

“Oh yeah. A few times.”

“It’s possible…” Mycroft said slowly. “That he’ll go to extremes to win.”

“He’s a twat, but cheating? Poison? It was probably just a stomach bug.”

“That is the most likely conclusion.” 

Moran would have relied on the most likely conclusion being widely adopted. Poison in a water bottle was so unlikely — it would require forethought and planning. He would almost certainly need an accomplice in the Sphere team car. Or at least a complicit soigneur at the side of the road to hand him the tainted bottle. The whole thing strained credulity.

Tom Wallays had something else to say, something he wasn’t sure he should share. “What? What is it?” Mycroft asked.

“My bike was messed with at Worlds last year. Almost missed my start time. I don’t know who did it...”

“But?” Mycroft urged.

Tom looked around — Moran was still on the other side of the waiting area, out of earshot. “I trust my mechanic.” Tom started. “He saw someone that looked like Moran’s trainer tampering with my bike. He found the battery was missing — the battery for my electronic gear shifters.”* 

”You were sabotaged.”

“I think I was, yeah. My mechanic had to take the battery from a teammate’s bike. Thank God he checked everything — all my settings had been changed. Pushing the button once would shift two gears instead of one, stuff like that. He managed to put it to rights... I made my start with seconds to spare.”

It said a lot about Tom Wallays’ mental toughness that he was able to put the episode behind him and win the World Championship time trial. “Was he certain it was Moran’s trainer?”

“Fairly sure.”

“But not completely certain..”

“No.” Tom said. “Since then Johnny has kept my bikes with him. Or locked up.”

Changing the settings had to be done through an app. Mycroft suspected Johnny had never changed the passkey from the factory default, 000000, making it simple for anyone with the app and a Bluetooth connection to sabotage Tom’s electronic gears. At least Johnny had thought to check the gear settings…

Neither episode was definitive. Nothing could be proved.

Mycroft was worried. Not for himself — Greg Lestrade targeted many of the same races as Sebastian Moran, and Greg was getting the better of him more often than not.

Greg needed to be on his guard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Tour de France started last weekend and I have been enjoying every stage! This morning's was super exciting. For those of you who follow — Wout Van Aert! I wish he were going for the green jersey. Sagan is looking weak this year. And WVA looks strong enough to do just about anything!
> 
> I hope you all are enjoying the story as much as I am enjoying watching the racing. Thanks for reading and thank you for all your comments!
> 
> ***
> 
> ROULEUR - In road bicycle racing different courses favour different types of rider depending on a range of environmental conditions such as terrain, climate and distance. Flat courses often finish in a bunch sprint, which favours specialist sprinters who can ride fastest over the last few hundred metres of the race. Mountainous courses favour lightweight, lean riders with a particularly high power output to weight ratio, enabling them to ascend the mountains efficiently. The time trial discipline is mastered by the riders who can produce a sustained high power output, over short to medium distance.
> 
> The rouleur is a consistent all rounder who can ride well over most types of course.
> 
> TIME CUT - Mostly applicable to the Grand Tours. On each stage all riders must finish within a certain percentage of the winner's time to remain in the race. Those who are unable to make the cut are disqualified from the race.
> 
> DISC WHEEL - solid or covered wheels designed to improve airflow around the rear end of the bike and reduce drag.
> 
> ROAD FURNITURE – they really call roundabouts, traffic circles and such road furniture and I could not love it more.
> 
> _CASQUETTE_ \- https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Casquette
> 
> GC – GENERAL CLASSIFICATION - the category that tracks overall times for bicycle riders in multi-stage bicycle races. Each stage will have a stage winner, but the overall winner in the GC is the rider who has the fastest cumulative time across all stages.
> 
> ELECTRONIC GEAR SHIFTING - a method of changing gears on a bicycle, which enables riders to shift with electronic switches instead of using conventional control levers and mechanical cables. The switches are connected by wire or wirelessly to a battery pack and to a small electric motor that drives the derailleur, switching the chain from cog to cog. An electronic system can switch gears faster, and because the system does not use Bowden cables and can calibrate itself, it may require less maintenance.


	3. PARIS-NICE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short play with two characters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are the four leaders’ jerseys in Paris-Nice. They are the same as the Tour de France as the races are related.
> 
> Yellow Jersey – Maillot Jaune- The wearer is the rider who has completed the race in the least amount of time, and as such tops the overall or general classification (GC) of the race.
> 
> Green Jersey - Maillot Vert - The points classification leader wears the green jersey. Points are awarded to riders according to the position that they finish each stage — the winner of each stage is awarded the most points — and there are additional points for intermediate sprints during some stages. Often referred to as the sprinter’s jersey, it is better thought of as the award for the most consistent rider.
> 
> Polka dot Jersey – King of the Mountains classification leader - Mountains points are awarded to riders who crest the climbs first. The amount of points awarded depends on the severity or ‘category’ of the mountain – the bigger it is, the more points are on offer.
> 
> White Jersey - maillot blanc - Best young rider classification leader. Awarded to the under-26 rider who has completed the stages of the race in the least amount of time.

“A very warm welcome to Stage Eight of Paris-Nice, the final stage of the Race to the Sun.”

**“We’ve found the sun — Nice is beautiful today, Rupert.”**

“That it is, Simon — I’m Rupert Yates and with me in the commentary box is former yellow jersey wearer Simon Harris. 

“The race started in Paris nine days ago at a brisk ten degrees. Today in Nice it’s a temperate nineteen degrees. That’s 66 degrees Fahrenheit for our fans in North America.”

**“It’s lovely out. Perfect riding weather.”**

“Let’s take a look at the parcours.* Today the peloton travels 175 kilometres from Nice to the Valdeblore La Colmiane ski summit — and with five climbs, is the second major mountain stage of the race. The riders will leave Nice via the Promenade des Anglais, with the first climbing test coming almost immediately via the category two* Côte de Gattières. The rolling roads, cat one Côte de la Sainte-Baume and cat two Col Saint-Raphaël and Côte de Villars-sur-Var climbs will test the riders’ legs before the hors category 16.3-kilometre climb to the ski station. The first ten kilometres of the climb average nine per cent with some slopes up to fifteen percent. The final five kilometres average between seven and eight percent. 

“With the long final climb, today’s stage could really shake up the general classification with final time gaps in minutes, not seconds.”

**“I think Moriarty will be tough to dislodge.”**

“I agree, Simon. The Sphere rider doesn’t like to let go of the yellow jersey once he’s taken it.

“Let’s recap stages one through five.

“The prologue saw Amstel’s Tom Wallays in the yellow jersey at the start of stage one. On paper, it looked to be a day for the sprinters, but a sharp cobbled climb to the finish line was just too much for the fast men. Sebastian Moran darted out of the pack early and got a good gap. It looked like he had it in the bag — but he celebrated too early and a chasing Greg Lestrade pipped him on the line. Moran got a consolation prize — with his high finish in the prologue, second place netted him enough points to take the green jersey.”

**“That was embarrassing for Moran — he had his hands in the air already.”**

“He really thought he had it.”

**“A good lesson for all you cyclists out there. Don’t celebrate until you cross the finish line.”**

“Good advice, Simon. Wallays retained the yellow jersey, Davide Romolo, in the breakaway, took the spotty jersey, and young Mycroft Holmes kept the white jersey he’d earned with his excellent time in the prologue.

“After the spoilers on stage one, nothing was going to stand in the way of the sprinters on stage two. Three men went up the road early, but the peloton never let them get more than three minutes all day. They were reeled in at nine kilometres to go, and the lead out trains took over. The finish was harrowing with a big crash five hundred metres from the line, but Amstel managed to avoid the carnage to deliver Heinrich Braun to his fourth win this season.”

**“And it’s only April, Rupert. Henry Braun is on fire.”**

“That he is, Simon.

“Moran kept the green jersey — he crossed the line fifth, amassing a sizeable lead in the points competition. Wallays retained yellow, Romolo increased his lead in the polka dot jersey competition, and Holmes was still in white.

“Stage three took the race into the heart of France where crosswinds played havoc with the peloton. With over a hundred kilometres left in the race, Amstel went to the front and ripped the race apart. A number of the sprinters were caught out — Smithton, Walscheid, Theuns, and Van den Berg. But the biggest losers were three of the GC men — Barbier, Caruso and Craddock. Their teams worked to close the gap, but in the end, they lost almost two minutes.

“Last year’s winner, Jim Moriarty and the young Columbian phenom Jésus Rosa, were safely in the front group. Sphere and Cinestar joined Amstel to widen the gap to the other contenders. Heinrich Braun easily took his second win in this year’s Paris-Nice from a reduced peloton, and Sebastian Moran followed him in second to scoop up more points for the green jersey. Tom Wallays kept the yellow for another day, Romolo kept the spotty jersey by one point, but Holmes — after working for the team all day — lost thirty seconds, giving up the white jersey to André Wurst.

“Stage four was the longest stage in this year’s edition, 227 kilometres.”

**“Pan flat.”**

“Yes, Simon, definitely flat. A single rider went off the front at kilometre zero and laboured on his own for more than two-hundred kilometres. Marc Trarieux of the small French team Euler Hermes had the cameras to himself all day, while Amstel’s Toon Goosens sat on the front of the pack — the other sprinter’s teams sending a man to help Goosens only in the last 60 k. They put poor Marc Trarieux out of his misery with twenty kilometres left in the stage.

“Maximillian Walscheid took the sprint, but not without controversy. Sebastian Moran’s lead out man, James Finnegan obstructed Heinrich Braun, going off his line and almost causing a crash. Finnegan was relegated* and Braun finished tenth on the stage.”

**“Relegation doesn’t mean anything to Finnegan — it’s a slap on the wrist.”**

“Simon has been grumbling about the Commisaires’* decision ever since.”

**“They should have relegated Moran. That would have been a real punishment.”**

“But Moran didn’t stray from his line. His sprint was completely legal.”

**“But the tactics were underhanded.”**

“You aren’t suggesting that Moran _told_ Finnegan to obstruct Braun?”

**“No, but Finnegan’s move was definitely premeditated. You can see on the video — he waits until Braun is right beside him and then veers into him, pushing him up against the barriers. It’s amazing that Braun didn’t crash.”**

“I will agree with you there, Simon. No changes in any of the jersey competitions, Wallays enjoying his fourth day in yellow and Moran keeping green by a widening margin.

“Onto stage five. Thirteen riders broke away — a big group hoping to survive to the finish line. Big Toon Goosens — the man is a tank — did the donkey work on the front of the peloton all day long, with maybe three or four short breaks when Durand took over.”

**“Very short. Goosens had his nose in the wind almost the whole stage, Rupert. There’s a reason his nickname is ‘Tug.’”**

“One against thirteen, usually you’d put your money on the thirteen… but when the one is Tug Goosens, you would have lost your money. The Amstel train controlled the peloton in the last five k, beating back challenges from Lotto and Egypt Cycling. The well-drilled Amstel squad delivered Heinrich Braun to the 150 metres mark of the slightly uphill sprint and he sealed the deal, beating Jesper Theuns and Max Walscheid by the width of his tyre.”

**“That was a close one.”**

“Indeed, it was! Stage six took us through the rugged terrain from Sorges to Apt in Provence, with six categorised climbs. It was a medium mountain stage, a transitional stage, and was another big target of the escape artists. It took over an hour for a break to get away — every team wanted a rider in the break and wouldn’t let one go without.”

**“A lot of riders had this stage circled in their race books.”**

“It was a harrowing first hour — average speed was 54.3 kilometres per hour. It wasn’t until the first climb when Mycroft Holmes went to the front and ripped the peloton to shreds that a group of six formed, including green jersey Sebastian Moran and Holmes’ Amstel teammate — and winner of Strade Bianchi — Greg Lestrade.

“The marauding Belgian was clearly the strongest man in the break, dropping his comrades one by one to cross the line alone, taking his second win in style.

“Tom Wallays enjoyed another day in yellow, Moran grew his lead in the green jersey competition, Bonnet kept white, but Romolo lost the spotty jersey to Lestrade.”

**“I thought he looked pretty surprised to get the polka dots, Rupert. He was completely focussed on the win and didn’t even think about the mountain points he was amassing.”**

“The seventh stage was the first for the GC men featuring two category one climbs and an hors category* climb.

“The break formed more quickly — only a few skirmishes before five brave souls were allowed up the road. Sphere controlled the peloton all day, and on Col d’Eze set a brutal pace. They caught the breakaway whilst whittling the front group down to fifteen. Jésus Rosa put in a big attack, dropping Martin Craddock and Thor Pedersen, but Agustus Magnussen — last man standing for Moriarty — patiently reeled Rosa back for the Sphere team leader.

“Magnussen was shelled when Barbier attacked, but Moriarty covered easily, Caruso and Rosa following his wheel. 

“Moriarty took the measure of his companions with a huge acceleration that saw him distancing everyone but Rosa. A second acceleration dislodged the Columbian and Jim Moriarty soloed to a dominant win.

“Tom Wallays lost more than ten minutes on the stage, handing the yellow jersey to Moriarty. Moran, despite not winning a stage, has a stranglehold on green, Marcus Jones took the spotty jersey after spending all day in the break, and Austrian André Wurst took over white.”

**“It’s been an exciting week.”**

“The racing has been absolutely cracking! And today promises more excitement. The neutral roll out has begun. I expect we’ll see attacks as soon as the race director drops the flag.”

“A lot of riders have been eyeing this stage, Rupert — after the GC battle yesterday, they’re betting a breakaway will survive.”

**“It well could — with Sphere’s dominance, it’s difficult for the other teams to challenge. Yesterday, Moriarty still had two men with him when all the other favourites were isolated on La Colmiane. With the time bonus at the line, he has thirty-four seconds on second place Rosa.**

“That’s not an unassailable lead.”

**“It’s not, Rupert. But I don’t see Moriarty losing it unless his competitors’ team up against him — they will try on the final climb… but everyone is too concerned protecting their place in the top ten to risk it all.”**

“The race director is waving the flag — and look at that! Marcus Jones attacked immediately!”

**“Good old Jonesy!”**

“He will want all the mountain points he can get — Romolo is only six points behind him, he might try to get in the break today as well. 

“Jones being joined by Thomas Phillipe of Egypt Cycling and someone from Giant Test Team — I can’t make out who yet.”

**“That’s Borislav.”**

“You’re right, Simon. Peter Borislav. The peloton is chasing... no, three more racers are bridging up to Jonesy’s group. Davide Romolo is one of them!”

**“You called it, Rupert.”**

“The other riders are from Euler Hermes... I’ll have the names in a minute.”

**“Euler Hermes has put riders in every breakaway this week.”**

“They’re scrappy. The Euler riders du jour are Bonnet and Moreau. They’ve got twenty seconds... twenty-five... they’re working hard... I think this might be today’s breakaway.”

**“What’s that... is that Moriarty?”**

“It’s the yellow jersey! He’s sprinted out of the peloton.”

**“I don’t know what he’s doing, Rupert — the peloton will never let him go in the break.”**

“It’s a mystery — Cinestar are moving to the front, they will chase for Rosa, and Banque Francaise and LPT are getting organised too... looks like this break is done for. What is Moriarty thinking?”

**“Looks like he’s talking to Borislav.”**

“I have never seen anything like this, Simon! Have you?”

**“No. This is highly unsual.”**

“Peter Borislav rode for Sphere last year... I heard there was some bad feeling when he left. Borislav is gesturing, he’s not happy.”

**“No, he is not, Rupert.”**

“And look at that! Both Borislav and Moriarty are dropping back to the peloton!”

**“Borislav looks _furious_. He slammed his hand down on his handlebars!” **

“I think I can make a guess… I’m just speculating, ladies and gents — but what I _think_ just happened is Moriarty decided he didn’t want his former teammate in the break. He sprinted across and told Borislav if he didn’t go back to the bunch, Moriarty would make sure the breakaway was caught.”*

**“Yeah, the GC teams _have_ to chase Moriarty down, Rupert, if they have any hope of challenging for the overall. You don’t give that bloke a second that you don’t have to.” **

“I have to say, Simon, if that’s what’s happened here, I’m not impressed. Moriarty’s being unbelievably punitive.”

**“Petty. He’s being petty.”**

“Indeed — who is Peter Borislav? We had to look up his name on the team roster. Going in a breakaway is probably the only reason he’d get a mention. Moriarty is the best stage racer on the scene right now... he doesn’t need to do that.”

**“We don’t know the circumstances of Borislav leaving Sphere. Maybe it was uglier than we know.”**

“You’re right, Simon. We don’t know the particulars... but I have to say I’m a bit stunned.

“In any case, the breakaway of five is well established now, with fifty-one seconds on the peloton... Marcus Jones of Prime Tutoring California — wearing the polka dot jersey — was the first to attack today, and with him is Davide Romolo of Lotto, Thomas Phillipe of Egypt Cycling, and Liliane Bonnet and Jean-André Moreau of Euler Hermes — they’re in the teal jerseys with black shorts.

“And they’ve begun the first climb. Sphere has gone right to the front and are controlling the peloton.”

**“The pace isn’t too punishing, not yet. They’ll want to save the fireworks for La Colmiane.”**

“It’s hard enough — riders are falling off the back. There’s Braun, waving at the camera.”

**“And Moran, the green jersey. He usually sticks closer to Moriarty.”**

“It’s been a hard week, Simon. The fast men will form their own group off the back and take the climb at a more moderate pace — more moderate for professional bike racers, all these blokes can climb much better than the average cyclist.”

**“It’s true. Everyone in the peloton is a phenomenal climber — it’s only when you compare the sprinters to the climbing specialists, the absolute crème-de-la-crème that they seem slow.”**

“You were often in the grupetto,* weren’t you Simon?”

**“Oh yeah, I was a card-carrying member. It’s pretty much the opposite of how the front group will climb, attacking and trying to shell the other racers — the grupetto try to stay together and help each other get over the summits. They’re some of the best descenders in the peloton — they have to be to make up some of the time lost uphill.”**

“Is it true that someone ‘drives’ the grupetto?”

**“It is. A rider with a good head for maths. He will calculate how fast the group has to climb in order to make the time-cut. Bernie Koch did it for years. These days, the duty falls to someone like Malthe Anker or Santiago Abreu.”**

“When you were racing, did you ever miss a time-cut, Simon?”

**“No, I never did. I stuck close to Bernie Koch.”**

“Wise strategy…

“The break is approaching the first summit. Will anyone challenge Jonsey for the points?”

**“Romolo will, definitely. He wants the polka dot jersey back.”**

“The five have been working well together and have almost four minutes on the peloton — which is showing no interest in chasing.

“Davide Romolo jumps! He wanted to take Jonesy by surprise, so he’s sprinted early. Jonesy’s chasing, but Romolo isn’t showing signs of tiring… but maybe he went too soon, Jonesy is almost on his wheel now and they’re still four hundred metres from the summit.”

**“Jonesy’s just going to sit on Romolo now and come around him in the sprint.”**

“It’s tough to get one over on Jonesy, he’s one of the best tacticians in the peloton.”

**“That’s true, Rupert. He’s Primary Tutoring’s captain on the road.”**

“Romolo will have to sprint from the front now, is he strong enough to beat Jonesy? There they go and Jonesy is trying to come around Romolo — oh, it’s no contest, Jonesy is too strong and Romolo sits up before the summit. He takes the nine points for second, but Jonesy takes the ten, increasing his lead by one.”

**“Every point counts, Rupert.”**

“Moreau and Bonnet take third and fourth respectively and Phillipe is fifth — they’re on the descent. It’s a twisty one.”

**“Jonesy is an excellent descender. If he wanted to, he could drop all four of his companions on the downhill.”**

“But he won’t want to?”

**“He won’t want to ride the remaining 152 kilometres alone. He’ll wait for the others.”**

“Oh! Moreau almost came to grief in that corner! I don’t know how he kept it upright. Here’s the replay… Oh! Look at that!”

**“Little bit of cyclocross in the grass there.”**

“It’s a miracle he didn’t crash. He got held up a little, but he’s chasing back now.

“And it looks like the peloton are approaching the summit. Will anyone go for the remaining mountain points? No… no one is showing any interest. Sphere leads the group through. Sanchez and Ramsey sweep up the remaining points on offer.”

**“They won’t care about the points. All hands are protecting Moriarty at Sphere.”**

“Speaking of Jim Moriarty, let’s listen to an interview with him before the stage.”

_“Jim Moriarty, that was a dominating performance yesterday, by you and by your team. Did everything go to plan?”_

_“The team was strong, they did a good job — I almost didn’t have to work at all.”_

_“That attack you put in at the end was just massive.”_

_“I’d been following the wheels all day, I was anxious to test my legs a little.”_

_“A hugely successful test, I’d say. Today’s stage looks demanding, do you think you’ll be challenged for the yellow jersey?”_

_“Oh, I hope so. That would make it interesting.”_

_“It’s fair to say you thrive on challenges.”_

_“I’ve always found competition rousing. Rosa is looking good this year and Caruso has come back well from his injuries last season. I hope they’ve been saving something for today.”_

_“I’m sure the audience hopes so too. Sphere is so powerful — but it must be difficult to win both the green and yellow jersies?”_

_“Seb has taken the maillot vert on his own — he’s been freelancing most of the week.”_

_“And it hasn’t been a problem that Moran isn’t able to support you as he’s done in past years? He’s always been a key helper, a super-domestique.”_

_“I like to think all the riders on Sphere are super… but Seb… I wanted him to take some glory this year. He’s worked hard, he deserves a reward.”_

_“Well, congratulations on your win yesterday and on the yellow — and green — jerseys. Good luck today.”_

_“Thanks.”_

“Not the most exciting interview — he’s a soft-spoken bloke, very mild-mannered off the bike.”

**“Do you think so?”**

“You don’t, Simon?”

**“I raced with Moriarty for a few years… he’s very much in charge of Sphere. If he thought he needed Moran at his side, that’s exactly where Moran would be, no question. And he has a… a real knack for finding a rider’s weakness and exploiting it. I guess that’s what makes him a winner.”**

“You don’t sound too happy about that.”

**“It’s not that. I’d like there to be a closer competition — for Sphere to have a real rival in the peloton, a team as strong as they are, to really give them a run for their money. If Moriarty always wins… well, that’s a bit boring, innit.”**

“I see what you mean.

“Back in the race, the break is on the second climb, the cat one Côte de la Sainte-Baume. Jonesy is looking very comfortable still.

“The peloton has crossed the valley and are just starting up the climb — it seems the grupetto has re-joined the group.”

**“They will, if they can. It’s hard to make the time-cut if you’re off the back at the beginning of the stage. I think they may take this one easier — there’s still a long way to go, Sphere won’t want to use up its riders too early.”**

“The break is out to 4:19 — so they’re still putting time into the group. The peloton is definitely taking it easier on this one. Cinestar is all in a line behind Sphere, protecting Jésus Rosa.

“The slopes of the Côte de la Sainte-Baume is more a test of climbing stamina — it’s more than 16 kilometres long, but only averages four percent.”

**“Sixteen k at four percent can really hurt the legs, Rupert. I understand why Sphere has cooled the pace down a bit.”**

“The sprinters will be happy… look at that, an Amstel rider has shot off the front! It’s Mycroft Holmes, the former white jersey. And it’s his birthday today! Mycroft Holmes is twenty-one today!

**“A good way to celebrate — attack the peloton.”**

“Indeed, it is. Sphere doesn’t look interested in chasing — Holmes is down almost fifteen minutes, he’s no threat to Moriarty’s yellow jersey. Or to anyone in the top ten.

“Simon, do you think he wants to join the breakaway?”

**“It looks like it — he’s really flying up the road.”**

“His grandfather was renown climber Roman Garin — who won this race forty years ago… on paper, Holmes is a climber. I was surprised that Holmes lost so much time yesterday.”

**“He would have lost time on purpose so the GC teams would let him go today. He wants the stage win for his birthday.”**

“It seems to have worked. Sphere hardly batted an eye. And now Holmes has thirty-seven seconds.”

**“And more importantly, he’s out of sight.”**

“If they can’t see him, he won’t be a carrot for the peloton.

“It’s early — there’s still 150 kilometres to go. Do you think he should have waited?”

**“The way he’s climbing, he should be able to bridge to the breakaway — it’s best to bridge as fast as possible and then recover. Holmes has pulled back fifty-eight seconds already.”**

“This is a stunning display of strength!

“The camera is back on the peloton — there’s Moriarty, fifth in the line of Sphere racers. He almost looks bored — clearly, he doesn’t see Holmes as a threat. 

**“He wouldn’t, fifteen minutes is impossible to make up.”**

“Moriarty has already won a stage. I’m sure he’d like to win again today, but he doesn’t have to win to keep the yellow jersey.” 

**“Holmes will have to outclimb the entire Sphere team to win the stage.”**

“You think Moriarty will pull him back in time to win?”

**“I think Moriarty thinks they will. There’s no reason why they wouldn’t — Sphere isn’t in the habit of giving presents, birthday or otherwise — to riders on other teams.”**

“You’re probably correct — the rate Holmes is climbing, no one can keep that up. He’s burning a lot of matches bridging up to the breakaway. 

“But I love his spirit — he’s not doing what’s expected.”

**“This is one of his first pro races. He doesn’t know yet what he _can’t_ do.” **

“This is how a young rider learns — whether this move is a mistake or not, Holmes will be wiser at the end of it.

“I’ve interviewed Mycroft Holmes a number of times and I know him personally a little — he’s one of the smartest people that I’ve ever met… but intelligence and experience are very different things. I really don’t think he knows yet what he’s capable of.

“He’s closing in on the break! He’s in the follow cars.”

**“That was fast!”**

“There’s still four k to go to the summit… will Holmes work with the break?”

**“He will recover a bit first – he just put in a big effort.”**

“Marcus Jones looks surprised to see Holmes. You know, Simon, Holmes beat Jones to the line two weeks ago in Strade Bianchi — there doesn’t seem to be hard feelings.”

**“No, there wouldn’t be — Jonesy’s a great guy.”**

“You and he were on the same team for a while.” 

**“Oh yeah, we were on Scott Industries together for six or seven years. There isn’t a nicer, kinder guy in the peloton.”**

“That’s what I’ve heard. 

“Look at that — Holmes has gone directly to the front of the group. I thought he’d take a rest first. But he looks relaxed, not under stress at all — he’s taking a gel.”

**“That’s good —he needs to keep eating if he wants to avoid hunger knock later.”***

“His team director will be reminding him, I hope.

“The peloton are climbing steadily. Some riders are out the back — are they still taking it easy?”

**“It looks like it. Anyone dropped on the climb won’t be too far behind. They’ll catch up on the descent.”**

“Cinestar is directly behind Sphere, protecting Rosa… what do you think are his chances of winning today, Simon?”

**“Hmm. On climbing ability, fifty-fifty. But Moriarty is a driven competitor. He can ride beyond himself when challenged.”**

“Moriarty never looks like he’s suffering.”

**“He has the best poker face in the peloton.”**

“And more importantly, he has the stronger team. Cinestar doesn’t have near the depth of Sphere.

“The breakaway is approaching the summit — they’ve extended their lead to more than six minutes now. Romolo looks poised to sprint, but he’s biding his time.”

**“Jonesy overtook him on the previous summit when he went early.”**

“He’s smart to try a different tactic — Romolo has launched and Jonesy is on him immediately. Holmes is following but shows no interest in mountain points. Jonesy gets max points again!

“He’s leading down the descent. Holmes has come around Romolo to descend on Jonesy’s wheel.”

**“That’s a good place to be… if he can keep up.”**

“He’s looking good so far. Romolo is being distanced, as are the other members of the break. Holmes looks to be a pretty good descender himself, what advantage is he getting on Jonesy’s wheel?”

**“Well, Jonesy is a heavier rider. The laws of gravity ensure that all else being equal, Jonesy will still descend faster. By drafting* behind him, Holmes is pulled along — he can match Jonesy’s speed.”**

“But they’ll wait for the others at the bottom?”

**“They’ll slow just enough for them to catch up — six will traverse the valley much faster than two. And they’ll have more energy saved for the next climb.”**

“Jonesy is flying… the computer says they’ve hit 79 kilometres per hour downhill! Look at that!

“The peloton is still climbing — the breakaway’s lead is going out even farther. Holmes is the highest on GC of those in the break, at 14:56 behind Moriarty — the rest are an hour or more behind. They’re no threat to his yellow jersey. How much time do you think they’ll let the break have?”

**“The break will need _at least_ ten minutes to win the stage. I doubt Sphere will let them have it.” **

“If they stick with their usual playbook, they’ll make the penultimate climb difficult, stress the legs of the GC riders. What could Cinestar do to counter that?”

**“Strategically, it’s better for Cinestar to save their strength so Rosa isn’t isolated on the final climb like he was yesterday. But they could do what Sphere will do — go to the front and make it hard. But if that’s the plan, they should do it now, on this climb, on the next climb. See if they can wear down Sphere so they aren’t so dominant in the final.”**

“Are they strong enough to do that?”

**“Probably not. And they’d risk wearing down Rosa.”**

“Rosa’s not willing to endanger his second place. I can understand that — second at Paris-Nice is a great result for him. It would be a more interesting race to watch, however, if he were willing to risk dropping out of the top ten on a play for the win.”

**“Not too many racers would do that. Even if they wanted to, their race directors would be in their ear telling them to cool their jets.”**

“Meanwhile, the breakaway has reached the valley and reformed. Everyone is working. The gap is holding at around 6:30.

“The next climb, the Col Saint-Raphäel, isn’t nearly as long as the Côte de la Sainte-Baume, but it’s steeper — as is Côte de Villars-sur-Var. More importantly, there isn’t much ground between them, the ascent of Villars-sur-Var begins almost as soon as the descent of Saint-Raphäel ends — in fact, after they reach Saint-Raphäel, there’s no more flat road left.” 

**“No – the road goes up or it goes down.”**

“That being the case, would it still benefit Holmes to stay with the break?”

**“It wouldn’t help much. But there will still be over 90 kilometres to ride. That’s a long way to go alone.”**

“The peloton is cresting the Côte de la Sainte-Baume. I have to say, Rick Ramsay of Sphere looks relieved.”

 **“He’s set the pace for the entire sixteen k.**

“Moran is coming to the front with Moriarty for the descent. The pace could not have been too high if Moran is still there.”

**“He’s a good climber for a big guy — he gets over the mountains better than the pure sprinters.”**

“And he likes to be the one to guide Moriarty downhill safely. They aren’t taking the risks that Jonesy and Holmes took. I’ve seen Moran — and Moriarty for that matter — descend like demons.”

**“They will if they think it’s necessary.”**

“They’re confident they can pull the break back on the next three climbs. Well, why wouldn’t they be confident? They’ve been so strong for so long — they have bags and bags of hammers to drop.

“The break has gone out to 7:13. Do you think they’ll get ten minutes?”

**“I think Sphere will start reeling them back in on the Col Saint-Raphäel.”**

“The breakaway has reached the feed zone.* They’re on the lower slopes of Saint-Raphäel. Holmes has taken a musette* and he’s going through it putting food in his pockets. The other riders in the break are taking theirs. What would usually be in the musettes, Simon?”

**“The soigneurs will put a variety of energy bars and gels in the bag — a variety because some riders have different preferences. There also could be rice cakes, a banana, a bottle with an energy drink or an electrolyte drink. Sometimes they’ll put a little piece of cake in for a treat, or a little chocolate bar.**

**“The Amstel soigneur would know that Holmes would be alone, so he or she would fill it with his favourites.”**

“And they’d know it’s his birthday — I hope there’s a bit of cake in there!

“He’s tossed the bag and some wrappers on the road.”

**“Yeah — there are specially marked zones where the riders can empty their pockets, get rid of their trash, empty water bottles. The zones will be cleaned up after the peloton goes through — part of the commitment to the environment.”**

“That’s great — cycling is good for the environment. It wouldn’t be so great if bicycle racing wasn’t.

“With their pockets — and mouths — full, the break is pushing on. Holmes is setting the pace — it’s fast! He’s riding away from the others.”

**“Moreau has bridged up to Holmes’ wheel. He’s a climbing specialist.”**

“Jonesy is shaking his head. Would he have expected Holmes to leave him behind on Saint Raphäel?”

**“It’s not like he can stop him. Holmes is really pushing the pace — he might be a bit excited and not measuring his effort.”**

“You mean he’s riding too hard?”

**“I think he is, Rupert. There’s still a long way to go and he’s not saving anything for later.**

**“Jonesy will keep his pace steady and chances are he’ll overtake Holmes.”**

“Look at that — is that correct? It says the gap to the Holmes group is nine minutes! The peloton is in the valley, shouldn’t they be faster on the flat than Holmes is uphill?

“Moran is pulling the peloton… I don’t see Van Hoodonk — he’s been doing the yeoman’s work on the front for Sphere all week.”

**“He must have been distanced on the climb.”**

“I don’t see Ramsay either. That’s surprising — Amstel and the other sprint teams have done most of the work this week. Maybe yesterday took more out of Sphere than they let on.

“Magnussen is there, right in front of Moriarty, and Hirsch is in Moran’s usual spot behind the team leader. Sanchez is sitting behind Moran… and I see Finnegan back a little farther… it looks like he’s suffering.”

**“He would have been in the grupetto on the Côte de la Sainte-Baume. It looks like he’s just caught back up.”**

“He’s bringing bottles from the car, handing them out to his teammates… and slotting in behind Moran. He’ll do a few pulls in the valley before he’s spat out the back again on the climb.

“Race radio just confirmed, time gaps are correct. Holmes and Moreau have 1:06 on Jonesy’s group and 9:34 on the peloton. They’re still increasing their lead.

“To be fair, I haven’t seen Moreau take a turn on the front. Holmes looks to be doing the damage himself.”

**“Moran looks grim.”**

“Is Sphere waking up to the danger? Is Moriarty set on winning today’s stage?

“I have to say, Holmes is looking good on the bike — his form is perfect. He looks like he could climb at that speed all day. But there are two more grippy climbs after this one, the last is 26 k with an average gradient of over eight percent — with some ramps above fifteen percent. It’s one of those mountains that can claim victims. Will Holmes look this good on La Colmiane?

“The peloton has reached the feed zone — oh! There’s a crash! Looks like an LPT rider trying to grab a musette ran into an Egypt Cycling rider. Both racers are on their feet and look like they can continue — Varga needs a new bike.

“There are often crashes in the feed zone, aren’t there, Simon?”

**“There are — for the reason you just saw. Lots of riders all trying to get to the right side of the road to grab a musette as they ride by. It’s very easy for accidents to happen.”**

“Is that why team leaders rarely get their own musette?”

**“Yeah, no one wants the team leader to take a silly risk in the feed zone. You can see the domestiques sharing out the food amongst the team.”**

“Moriarty doesn’t look too happy with his choices. Perhaps he’s regretting letting Mycroft Holmes go up the road. Holmes has 10:06 now!”

**“He’ll need ten minutes at the bottom of La Colmiane if he hopes to stave off Sphere.”**

“There’s more climbing — and two descents — before then. We’ll see if Holmes can hold his lead.

“The peloton is on the slopes of Saint-Raphäel proper now. Moran and Finnegan have dropped anchor…”

**“Oh ho! That was fast! I would have expected Moran to hold on a bit longer.”**

“The grupetto is forming more quickly — I don’t think they’ll catch up to the peloton again.”

**“No, they’ll measure their efforts now to get to the finish inside the time-cut. They shouldn’t have any problem.”**

“Holmes is at the summit already — he’s distanced Moreau! The Euler Hermes rider couldn’t match the pace.

“Holmes is on the descent.”

**“He’s a good descender. Look at that — he just leans his bike over.”**

“You sound surprised, Simon. He’d have to be good to stay with Jonesy.”

**“Yeah but look at him — Holmes looks like a gentle breeze could knock him over. How much does he weigh? Sixty-three kilograms soaking wet?”**

“He’s lean, surely, but he’s tall — 188 centimetres… I have his stats up — uh… oh! You’re right, Simon, Holmes is only 60 kilos.* That’s… that’s — well that explains how he can climb so fast, his power to weight ratio must be incredible!”

**“He does get very aerodynamic — see how compact he makes himself. That shouldn’t be possible with those long arms and legs. And he’s taking every risk possible.”**

“That position he’s gotten himself into, hugging the top tube — don’t try that at home, kids. It’s fantastically dangerous. Oh! Oh! I think my heart stopped! Holmes overcooked that corner and almost came to grief!”

**“Here’s the slow-motion replay… there’s something on the road, some gravel or a wet bit, and that made his back wheel slide out. He has reflexes like a cat — I don’t know how he held that upright.”**

“Thank God he did! Crashing at that speed… he doesn’t seem inhibited at all. If my back wheel did that, I’d have to slow down a little.”

**“Nerves of steel, Rupert. I thought Jonesy was fast on the descent, this rider is on another level.”**

“He sees lines through the corners that no one else sees! Holmes is back in the aero tuck. His advantage is now 10:37. Another fast left-hander — he’s following the motorbike tucking down whenever he can. It’s thrilling, Simon!”

**“Holmes looks so fast on this descent.”**

“Back to the peloton. Sphere has picked up the pace. I don’t think they expected Holmes to get ten minutes when he took off on the Côte de la Sainte-Baume. Hirsch has come to the front and is putting in a heroic job of work. Look at that grimace!

“I don’t think he was expecting to have to work this hard until the next hill.”

**“I think you’re right, Rupert. Moriarty has to be concerned that he’s down to three guys already. I don’t know how much help Hirsch is going to be after this effort.”**

“Hirsch is a bit dramatic — tongue out, mugging at the camera… maybe he’s playing up the suffering.”

**“We’ll know soon enough.”**

“Sphere is reeling in one of the breakaway riders… it’s Bonnet, the other Euler Hermes rider. He must not have been able to stay with the others on the climb.

“Look at that! Pascal Hirsch is pulling off! He’s done! They aren’t even halfway up Saint-Raphäel!”

**“That’s pretty shocking, Rupert. Suddenly Sphere isn’t looking so dominant.”**

“Sanchez is taking over. The other teams must be sharpening their knives! Not that Rosa has many teammates left either‚ Hirsch whittled the peloton down to about twenty riders. And Sanchez has set a punishing pace!

“Let’s see, Barbier is still there. I see Caruso. Martin Craddock is right at the back — he looks to be struggling a little. André Wurst, the white jersey is there too. Trueba looks comfortable and Danny Jacks has made the cut. I don’t see Van Joosen...”

**“He’s there behind Barbier.”**

“Right. All the big names are accounted for…

“This is how they would have ridden the final climb — there’s still fifty-six kilometres to the bottom of La Colmiane!”

**“I’m sure Sphere intended to save Hirsch and Sanchez for La Colmiane.”**

“Moriarty might have to give up on winning today and focus on keeping yellow — Rosa is only 34 seconds back… if Moriarty is isolated…”

**“It will be a real test of Moriarty’s strength.”**

“I can’t remember the last time Moriarty was isolated!”

**“I don’t think he ever has.”**

“This is incredible! And it’s all the work of this man — Mycroft Holmes is on the Côte de Villars-sur-Var. He has 2:46 on the Jones group and — wow! — 12:47 on the peloton! Simon, he’s only two minutes shy of being the virtual yellow jersey!* What a great way to celebrate his birthday!”

**“I’m impressed… but there’s still a long way to go.”**

“That there is. Holmes is getting a fresh bottle from the car. And he’s topping up with an energy bar. It’s so important that he keep eating.”

**“It is, Rupert. It’s been a long week and he’s been putting in a big effort today. He can’t wait until he’s hungry, by then it’s too late. He has to eat now for thirty minutes from now.”**

“I’d hate to see him brought low by hunger knock. Holmes is still riding at a fantastic tempo and he doesn’t show any sign of tiring.”

**“I’m starting to root for him, Rupert. I probably shouldn’t say that.”**

“I’ve been rooting for him from the start — what about you, ladies and gents? Who are you rooting for? What are your predictions for the stage? Let us know on Twitter at @sharris-_cycles and @ruperty. We’ll be looking for your tweets.

“Holmes is a kilometre from the summit of the Côte de Villars-sur-Var. Then he has a long, technical descent — fifteen k downhill — and then the final 26 kilometres on the gruelling slopes of La Colmiane. What do you think, Simon? Can he make it?”

**“It’s possible. It’s really possible. Holmes has to measure his effort carefully — if he runs out of gas, he’ll start losing huge chunks of time.”**

“I’ve gotten a few tweets: Ricardo says Holmes for the stage and Rosa for the yellow jersey. That would be a dream come true for both riders.”

**“If Rosa takes over the yellow jersey, he would owe Mycroft Holmes a beer.”**

“He would owe Holmes his weight in beer! Right now, he’s single-handedly dismantling Sphere. 

“Emil B. thinks Holmes will crack. Kary Karpenter agrees and predicts that Moriarty will win the stage and the jersey. Well, that’s certainly Sphere’s plan, Kary.

“Pieter W. — ha! — Pieter W. says Mycroft Holmes looks like Christopher Robin, the boy from Winnie The Pooh. He does a bit at that. I think I mentioned that I know him slightly — he _does_ appear boyish in person, a bit delicate even. Not in a negative way… just makes me want to feed him up. But then he gets on a bike and he’s one of the hardest men in the peloton — anyone who has watched him race ‘cross knows that. Anyone who saw his stellar performance at Strade Bianchi, doing the donkey work for Greg Lestrade, knows it.

“What none of us knew, not really, was that he can climb like his grandfather.”

**“There’s an excellent documentary about Roman Garin, Rupert. Despite being Belgian, the French loved him. They called him Gou-Gou. They’d shout, “ _Allez, Gou-Gou!_ ” from the side of the road. He rode with panache, really animating every race. **

**“All anyone remembers about him is his tragic death, but he was a real character… I think Mycroft Holmes might be more like him than I suspected.”**

“Holmes is certainly riding with panache today! 

“I didn’t know all that about Roman Garin. Where did you see this documentary?”

**“Netflix. I recommend it highly — especially now that Holmes is racing.”**

“I’ll have to check it out.

“Holmes has reached the top of Villars-sur-Var and he’s starting the descent.

“Sanchez is still on the front of the peloton, leading them down the descent from Saint-Raphäel — they are more than fifteen minutes back! Mycroft Holmes is the yellow jersey on the road!”

**“That’s amazing. I’m sure Moriarty will pull that back on the last climb, he won’t give up his yellow jersey without a fight.”**

“No, he won’t. But Holmes could be riding himself into the top ten. He could take back the white jersey from André Wurst — Wurst is seventh on GC at 5:49 back from Moriarty.

“OH! Crash! It’s Mycroft Holmes! He’s climbing over the crash barrier… what happened? Here’s the replay — looks like he lost control in the corner and slid out… Oh! He hit the crash barrier head on and flipped over it into the grass!”

**“He looks OK. He’s back on his bike.”**

“Holmes is descending again. He looks intact. I can’t see any rips in his jersey.”

**“Must have had a soft landing in the grass.”**

“Is there such a thing?”

**“Relatively soft.”**

“It doesn’t seem to have affected him, he’s leaning his bike over in the corners, taking them perilously fast.

“He still has 15:26 on the peloton.”

**“That was lucky. If crashing can ever be termed lucky.”**

“The camera is coming around him… I don’t see any blood or rips…”

**“There’s grass caught in his cleat.”**

“I can’t believe he walked away from that. Have you ever seen anything like that?”

**“Once or twice. It’s possible he’s separated a shoulder or twisted his back, something that wouldn’t show but will hurt.”**

“I doubt it will hurt until the adrenaline wanes. And I don’t expect that will happen until he crosses the finish line.

“The peloton has reached the start of Villars-sur-Var. Sanchez is still on the front. A few riders joined back up on the descent, but not many. It’s still a very small peloton.

“And Ali is immediately off the back again. Sanchez is a beast. Moriarty doesn’t look bothered.”

**“Best poker face in the peloton. His expression never changes.”**

“So, he might be suffering, but we’ll never know.”

**“Not until he cracks. And I’ve never seen him crack.”**

“Sanchez is cracking though! He’s done! He’s pulled off and he’s pedalling squares.”

**“He’s done for the day.”**

“Now it’s just Magnussen and Moriarty for Sphere! And there’s still forty-nine kilometres left in the stage!

“Moriarty is talking into his radio. He’s not happy about this.”

**“No, this is a disaster for Sphere. They’re crumbling.”**

“Magnussen is setting the pace now. Rosa and Caruso are riding right behind Moriarty.”

**“If he shows any weakness, they’ll attack him.”**

“Moriarty must be wondering how this happened. At the beginning of the stage, this race looked sewn up.

“Magnussen has pulled back a few seconds, but Holmes still has more than fifteen minutes.”

**“He’s still the virtual yellow jersey.”**

“Twitter is exploding, no one can remember Sphere ever falling apart like this. Can they still salvage this race?”

**“Oh yeah. If Holmes loses steam, he might still take the stage, but the white jersey will slip from his grasp.”**

“Not to mention yellow.”

**“Yellow was always optimistic. Rosa is looking restless — he’s ready to go the second Moriarty falters.”**

“Is that your prediction? Rosa will take the yellow jersey?”

**“Yeah. Holmes will hang in there to win the stage and Rosa will attack a weakened Moriarty for the overall. That’s my prediction.”**

“I’m going to go out on a limb. Holmes still looks strong — I predict he takes the stage _and_ the jersey.”

**“That would be something. The best birthday ever.” But let’s not forget how strong Moriarty is. You can’t discount him.”**

“That’s true. I’m sure when Holmes started his attack, he never expected the yellow jersey to even be in reach.”

**“He wanted the stage win.”**

“Maybe, in his excitement — Holmes is a very young rider, just 21 today — maybe he’s gone off too hard. He could fade spectacularly on La Colmiane.

“Speaking of La Colmiane, Holmes has just made the turn leading to the base if the climb.”

**“The _official_ base — I rode La Colmiane this morning, and I can tell you Holmes has already been climbing for a kilometre.”**

“La Colmiane is a real leg breaker, that’s for certain.

“I have to say, though, Holmes still looks full of fight.

“Oh, crash in the peloton!”

**“That’s the same corner where Holmes came to grief.”**

“It’s claiming victims today... it’s a Giant Test Team rider — it’s Caruso, the team leader. He’s taking his time getting back up.”

**“He looks hurt.”**

“Caruso will want to continue if he possibly can. His team car has stopped, they’re helping him up.”

**“His kit is shredded. Looks like he lost a lot of skin.”**

“That’s got to hurt. He’s getting on his spare bike. He seems to have lost his stomach for the descent.”

**“His teammate is waiting for him. Cameron. He’ll help Caruso get back to the bunch.”**

“Holmes is on the climb proper now. I have to say, he still looks good on the bike.”

**“He does, Rupert. He’s on some of the steeper gradients and he doesn’t look under any pressure.”**

“The race situation is this: one rider, Mycroft Holmes, is alone off the front. 12:56 behind him is a group of four from the original breakaway, and 16:25 back is the yellow jersey group — it’s been whittled down to about 20 riders over the last two climbs. They still have the descent off of Villars-sur-Var and the challenging 26 kilometre La Colmiane.

“Holmes is the virtual yellow jersey by two minutes and twenty-nine seconds — but they’ll be climbing La Colmiane for more than an hour. Moriarty has ample time to pull back the two and a half minutes and, if Holmes falters, Moriarty could potentially overtake him and salvage the stage win.

“However, Sphere has used up many of its riders already, with only Augustus Magnussen left to help Jim Moriarty on the slopes of La Colmiane. At the beginning of this stage, no one would have predicted that the mighty Team Sphere would falter.”

**“It’s pretty remarkable how quickly Sphere crumbled. Were their legs tired from yesterday’s challenging stage? Were they hoping to bluff their way through today, relying on their reputation to keep attacks in check?”**

“Smoke and mirrors? If so, it has failed miserably, Simon.

“But Moriarty still has Magnussen, his best lieutenant in the mountains. He could salvage this yet.

“Confirmation that Marcus Jones has clinched he mountain jersey. He took maximum points on the first two climbs today and third and second respectively on Col Saint-Raphäel and Côte de Villars-sur-Var. Sebastian Moran has had the green jersey sewn up since Friday — his lead is unassailable. This morning I would have said that the chances of the yellow and white jerseys changing hands were low — but Mycroft Holmes has upended both competitions in his campaign for the stage win.

“The Moriarty group has reached the start of La Colmiane. Magnussen is setting the pace on the front. How long before Moriarty’s challengers begin to attack?”

**“It’s a long climb, Rupert. Twenty-six kilometres. I think they’ll wait until the last few k to attack. Unless Moriarty shows weakness — they’re watching him like a hawk.”**

“Holmes has reached the steepest part of the climb now and he’s not showed any weakness — to my eye, he looks as sprightly now as he did when he first attacked, over one hundred kilometres ago.”

**“Oh, to be twenty-one again.”**

“You say that, but isn’t it unusual for a rider this young to have this kind of endurance?”

**“I’d say it depends on the rider. In the past, conventional wisdom was that riders develop over time, reaching their peak around 26 or 28 years. But with the state of training now it’s possible that a young rider can perform beyond expectations. And Holmes has been racing at a high level in cyclocross for a few years.”**

“So it’s not simply that he’s prodigiously talented?”

**“Oh, he’s that too! But training, nutrition, recovery — it all plays a part. And he would have his conditioning from racing ‘cross.”**

“He’s increased his lead to 16:58. This is phenomenal to watch!

“We saw in the prologue that Holmes can time trial. We saw him holding his own — and then some — in Strade Bianchi where he came in third. And now we’re seeing him climb. Do you think we’re seeing the next great stage racer?”

**“It’s possible, Rupert. Holmes is showing he’s an all-rounder.”***

“He might be a real challenger for Jim Moriarty.”

**“I don’t want to get ahead of ourselves, this is Holme’s first stage race — and only his second World Tour race — but it’s possible.”**

“As you say, this is only his second race, but he appears to be thriving on Amstel. Holmes has been an integral part of Braun’s lead out this week, he was working in the front group on Stage three in the crosswinds, and he helped to launch Lestrade on Stage six with his blistering turn at the front of the peloton. Despite the unfortunate circumstances this winter, Amstel appears to be a good home for him.”

**“Definitely the sort of teammate that I would want. Versatile. Not afraid to work and stupid strong.”**

“He’s extended the gap to the yellow jersey to 17:23!

“As good as Holmes looks, you can’t say the same about Magnussen.”

**“No — he almost never shows the effort but look at his body language now. He’s suffering.”**

“Caruso goes! He gets ten metres on the group and looks to see if he’s been successful. He pushes on!

“Magnussen has lifted the pace. It’s excruciating, watching him pull Caruso back — it’s a superhuman effort from the Dane. But he does it, he brings Moriarty up to Caruso.

“Barbier attacks! Magnussen is done! He’s gone! Moriarty and Rosa respond.

“Barbier sees that Moriarty is with him and slows. A group with Wurst and Van Joosen come back… and Jacks and Craddock are trying to bridge up too. I don’t see Caruso — he’s off the back.”

**“That attack was his last hurrah. He must be suffering after that crash.”**

“They’re all looking at Moriarty.

**“He’s the yellow jersey, no one will help him now.”**

“He’s reluctantly gone to the front. All the other favourites are sitting behind him just waiting for the right moment to attack.

“Simon, tell the listening audience why no one will work with Moriarty.”

**“In order to take the yellow jersey from Moriarty, his rivals need to make up the time he has on them. They won’t do that if they pull through, take turns working at the front, allowing Moriarty time to rest. They are forcing him to defend the jersey by sitting behind him until he tires and then attacking.”**

“They’ve reached the steepest section, a leg-breaking 15.8 percent.”

**“Ouch!”**

“Trueba goes! Moriarty is distanced! He’s trying to make his way up to the LPT rider… and he latches onto his wheel. He is so strong.

“Rosa!”

**“That was textbook! Rosa waited until Moriarty had pulled them all back to Trueba and attacked as soon as they made contact!”**

“Everyone’s looking at Moriarty. He’s saying something.”

**“Looks like he wants Craddock — in fourth place — to help reel Rosa back. Moriarty’s banking that Craddock will want to protect his place in the top ten.”**

“It doesn’t look like Craddock is willing.”

**“He’s too smart. If he can drop Moriarty, Craddock can potentially move onto the podium.”**

“Moriarty has put his head down and is going after Rosa.

“Checking in with Holmes up the road — he’s still riding a fantastic tempo!”

**“He looks good. He has seven more kilometres to the finish line… if he can keep this up, he’ll win the stage easily.”**

“It’s not a sure thing?”

**“Not with seven k left to climb.”**

“Holmes is past the really steep gradients. 

“Trueba attacks again! He bridges easily up to Rosa and rides past. Rosa gets on his wheel — they’re motoring away from Moriarty!

“This is fantastic racing!”

**“Moriarty can’t match the acceleration! I’ve never seen him dropped before! He’ll have to ride his own pace now — if he stays within himself, he could still bring them back.”**

“Van Joosen has decided to ride away from Moriarty too… but doesn’t quite make it up to the Rosa group. 

“Moriarty is talking to Wurst. Will Wurst help Moriarty in defence of the white jersey?”

**“Wurst is looking to Jacks — his older teammate on Lotto. Jacks is shaking his head and Wurst drops back behind Moriarty.”**

“Moriarty does not look happy. His legs must be screaming! He’s pulling Van Joosen back slowly… but Rosa and Trueba are thirty seconds up the road now!”

**“Rosa is only 44 seconds behind Moriarty. He could be virtual yellow soon.”**

“Don’t forget Mycroft Holmes — he has… _almost nineteen minutes_! That’s amazing!”

**“It’s incredible! Rosa will have to pull more than four minutes of that back.”**

“Can he do that?”

**“It’s possible… but unless Holmes really cracks, he’s got this.”**

“When he attacked, you said it was impossible.”

**“I thought so. I’d be happy to be proved wrong… we’re witnessing history here.”**

“Cycling history, we certainly are. We might be witnessing the birth of the next great stage racer.

“Rosa and Trueba are pulling back members of the original break… “

**“I’d almost forgotten about them.”**

“They’re passing Davide Romolo. Phillipe is up the road still. Romolo doesn’t even try to go with Rosa and Trueba.

“We haven’t looked in on the break in a while… Marcus Jones and Jean-André Moreau are still a minute up the road.

“Back at the Moriarty group. Craddock has been distanced, but Wurst, Jacks, and Van Joosen are all sitting behind the yellow jersey. They’re now forty-two seconds behind Rosa — two more seconds and Rosa is virtual second place.

“Trueba is 3:16 back, looks like he’ll move up past Craddock to fourth.

“This is riveting! Rosa and Trueba are moving past Thomas Phillipe — and Rosa puts in a big acceleration! Trueba is fighting… it doesn’t look like he can match Rosa.”

**“Rosa must have sensed that Trueba was tiring. Otherwise it would be better to keep working together.”**

“Rosa is on his own now, labouring up La Colmiane in search of yellow. He’s looking sprightly, but he’s not making up time on Holmes. Holmes is extending his lead on Moriarty.

“Holmes is on the last section. He’s going to win the stage!”

**“Yeah, Jonesy is closest to him at 17:12 back. Holmes could get off his bike and crawl to the line now and still win.”**

“Heh. I hope we don’t see that. Holmes is passing under the red kite — one thousand metres left for the young Amstel rider!

“He’s showing the first signs of fatigue, but it doesn’t matter now! It’s his birthday and he’s giving himself the best gift!

“500 metres — he can hardly believe this is happening. His race director is leaning out of the follow car, cheering for Holmes! The crowd is so loud, we can’t hear him, but we can see him.”

 **“He looks chuffed!”**

“He does! Hugo Charpentier looks very proud of his newest racer!

“Three hundred metres. Holmes looks back — don’t worry, there’s no one behind you for five kilometres!

“100 metres. He’s starting to celebrate. It’s sinking in now! He’s done it! Hands in the air in triumph, _Mycroft Holmes wins stage eight of Paris-Nice_!”

**“That was a magnificent ride!”**

“And the clock starts counting the seconds until Moriarty reaches the finish.

“Holmes is off the bike, his team director is there — Hugo Charpentier picks him up in a bear hug! He asked Holmes to attack today, he asked Holmes to go for the stage today, and Mycroft Holmes has delivered in grand style!”

**“It’s gotta be a great birthday present, a stage in Paris-Nice!”**

“I can’t think of anything better.

“Back down the hill, the general classification race continues — time is ticking, Jim Moriarty has only seventeen minutes and 23 seconds left to cross the line, or he loses his yellow jersey!

“Jésus Rosa has 1:24 on Moriarty — _he_ needs to get to the finish line within fifteen minutes to win yellow. Can he do it, Simon?”

**“He still has more than eight kilometres — no, Rupert, I don’t think he can do it. I’m not ready to write off Moriarty though — he’s surprised me before.”**

“The camera returns to Moriarty. Last year’s champion is expressionless as he grinds his way uphill. Van Joosan attacked while we were watching Holmes win the stage and now Wurst and Jacks are riding away from him! This is a disaster for Moriarty!”

**“It’s a disaster for Sphere.”**

“That’s right. One rider has shattered Team Sphere, the strongest stage racing team of the past five years. We’re looking at the fallout — a dead-eyed and struggling Jim Moriarty left alone on the side of La Colmiane!

“Rosa is catching Marcus Jones — Jones expends the effort to speed up and latches onto Rosa’s wheel. I’m not sure he can ride that pace for long.”

**“Good old Jonesy!”**

“He didn’t win the stage, but he will be on the podium tonight in the polka dot jersey.”

**“That’s a pretty good consolation prize.”**

“But who will be the yellow jersey? The GC riders are all over the road in ones and twos… there’s Trueba. He’s gone backwards a little, he’s with Van Joosen and Moreau from the early break.”

**“That’s a big effort from Moreau.”**

“It is — he’s been out front for one hundred and fifty kilometres and he still has the energy for a little more… there he goes, he’s unhitched…

“Time is passing… it’s been ten minutes since Mycroft Holmes crossed the line — the camera cuts to him, he’s on the turbo trainer warming down, Hugo Charpentier with him, grinning wide enough to crack his face in half. They’re watching the clock. Five more minutes and Mycroft Holmes officially wins the yellow jersey!

“Rosa is digging deep… but I think he still has too far to go.”

**“I think so too, Rupert. It’s just too far.”**

“Four minutes to the most amazing twenty-first birthday ever!

“Ah, Moriarty’s car has come up beside him — he doesn’t want to talk. His race director is offering him a bottle, but he won’t take it. He won’t even look at it.”

**“I think he’s furious. Moriarty has a bit of a temper.”**

“I hadn’t heard that.”

**“He hides it well, but he’s gone off once or twice. It’s not pretty.”**

“It’s going to be uncomfortable on the Sphere bus tonight.”

**“You couldn’t pay me to be on that bus after the race.”**

“You wouldn’t want to be a fly on the wall?”

**“No. Anyone who’s seen Jim Moriarty lose his temper never wants to see it again.”**

“I think we might have seen a flash of Moriarty’s temper earlier with that business with Borislav — if that’s the case, it’s a good thing he keeps it under wraps most of the time.

“The clock is ticking down. Hugo Charpentier is counting with it. Ten more seconds — and Jésus Rosa is still more than a kilometre from the finish! 

“ _Mycroft Holmes wins Paris-Nice_!

**“Charpentier is hugging Holmes so hard, he’s pulled him off his bike!”**

“It’s absolutely incredible! Lock up your silverware when Mycroft Holmes comes to town! He’s just stolen Paris-Nice from Sphere and Jim Moriarty!”

**“Holmes looks gobsmacked!”**

“He’s just pulled off something that most riders can only dream of! Mycroft Holmes, in his first stage race, only twenty-one years old, on his birthday, wins the yellow jersey! 

“He won the stage, he has won the white jersey, and he has won the race with panache!

“Jésus Rosa knows it now. He’s in the last K looking glum.”

**“He worked so hard. He needs a stronger team.”**

“The strongest team couldn’t stop Mycroft Holmes today.”

**“Holmes will never be given the freedom he got today again — now the other teams know what he’s capable of, know the danger, they’ll chase him down when he attacks.”**

“They’d be smart to do so. If they can.”

**“If they can. Yeah, easier said than done.**

“Holmes still looks like he can’t quite believe this is happening. He’s surrounded by Amstel people who are surrounded by press. 

“Rosa has crossed the line in second place — and he’ll almost certainly stand on the second step of the podium tonight. He’s riding straight towards Holmes. The press is parting — look at that, he congratulates Mycroft. He shakes his hand and smiles. Rosa understands the historic nature of what happened today.”

**”Fair play! Good on ya, Rosey!”**

“Jésus Rosa has to be impressed by the young rider. He thinks he’ll be racing against Holmes for years to come — and if today is any indication, he’s correct.

“Marcus Jones has crossed the finish line in third place — winning the spotty jersey. The group containing Wurst, Jacks and Von Joosen isn’t far behind. Moriarty hasn’t reached the red kite yet.

“In a circumstance like this — you’ve lost the overall, you’ve dropped to third overall — does a rider still race? Or does he do the bare minimum to get to the finish?”

**“He races. Moriarty is too proud to give up — even when he’s been beaten. He’s a racer through and through.”**

“Jonesy congratulates Holmes. I wish we could hear them — he just made Mycroft Holmes laugh. I think it’s beginning to sink in — he has won Paris-Nice.”

**“Jonesy’s a great bloke. He’ll be chuffed to be on the podium.”**

“Wurst is patting Holmes on the back. Good sports all!

“Moriarty is in the last kilometre now. His ordeal is almost over. He’s smiling — I’m not sure if that’s a smile or a rictus of pain. It certainly bears no resemblance to the boyish smile, the infectious delight he displays when he wins. The crowd is cheering for him, but he looks straight ahead. 

“He has nothing to be ashamed of. He has a stage win! He rode a good race.”

 **“No, he doesn’t, Rupert. But he has to be wondering what happened. His team fell apart around him and left him to fend for himself. His competitors capitalised, attacking him mercilessly. He’s lost the yellow jersey in a race he’s won the last three years. Today has to be Jim Moriarty’s nightmare.”**

“He crosses the line, still smiling. Honestly, he looks a little unhinged. He rides directly to Holmes”

**“He’s going to congratulate Holmes. He’s a real sportsman.”**

“After what we witnessed earlier in the stage, with Borislav, I wasn’t sure Moriarty would want to talk to Holmes.”

**“It can’t be easy, but it’s the right thing to do.”**

“Holmes looks stunned — I wish we could hear what he’s saying. Now Sphere personnel are taking Moriarty’s bike, they’re guiding him away, towards the team bus. He’ll warm down and get ready for the podium ceremony — it’s going to be a while before the green jersey gets here — will they hold the podium for Moran?”

**“No, they’ll start as soon as Moriarty is ready. They’ll do the green jersey last.”**

“Holmes and Rosa are giving interviews now”

**“You’ll have to have Holmes on your podcast again, Rupert.”**

“That I will, Simon! Let’s listen in.”

_“Congratulations, Mycroft Holmes! Can you believe that you have won the yellow jersey?”_

_“All the evidence suggests that’s the case. I expect I’ll come to accept it as fact.”_

_”Oh. Ha, ha. Yeah. Was that the plan when you attacked? To take the overall?”_

_“No. The plan was to attack and, if successful, attempt to join the breakaway. When I had accomplished that… I improvised.”_

_“Quite an improvisation! When did you know that the yellow jersey was possible? When you had fifteen minutes on Moriarty? Sixteen?”_

_“When did I know it was possible? After I crossed the line, Hugo told me it might happen… but I had some difficulty believing him.”_

_“You had a dramatic crash on the descent off the Côte de Villars-sur-Var, but still managed to win the stage and the race...?”_

_“Yes, there was a slippery patch on the road and I lost control. But I was — happily — unhurt. And my bicycle sustained little damage._

_“That’s lucky! I understand today is your birthday. It must be the best birthday imaginable.”_

_“… this birthday is certainly memorable.”_

_“How do you plan to celebrate? Will there be a party tonight?”_

_“I don’t know… perhaps I’ll go to Euro Disney.”_

_“…you... you’re going to Disney?”_

_“Apologies, that was a joke. To be honest, I hadn’t planned to celebrate. But I expect the entire team will celebrate our many successes this week together.”_

_“Oh, heh. Well, it was compelling racing today — really great stuff! Congratulations again.”_

_“Thank you.”_

“Euro Disney! Ha!”

**“I don’t think that interviewer knew what to do with Holmes.”**

“No, I don’t think so. Holmes has a very dry sense of humour.”

 **“Clearly you enjoy it.”**

“That I do, Simon. That I do. 

“I hear that Moriarty has arrived backstage. He’s refusing interviews at this time, but they’re starting the podium presentations.

“First for winning the stage. Mycroft Holmes waves to the crowd. He accepts flowers and kisses from the podium girls and the trophy from the director of Paris-Nice. He smiles — rather dutifully…”

**”He still looks a little shell-shocked.”**

“Indeed, he does. He leaves the stage — and comes right back as they announce his name as winner of the white jersey. The race director holds up the jersey and Holmes slips his arms through. The director walks around and zips it up the back. Holmes tugs it into place and raises his arms — he is the best rider under age 26.”

**“Might take him a minute to get that off.”**

“Marcus Jones is announced and is awarded the spotty jersey.”

**“Now that smile is dazzling. Good old Jonesy.”**

“He worked hard for that jersey, getting in four breakaways this week to amass points.”

“Holmes is called again, this time for the yellow jersey. The race director helps him put it on over his Amstel kit. I think he’s starting to believe it.”

**“He looks really happy.”**

“The cheering is so loud I can barely hear — they’re announcing Jésus Rosa as second place overall… and now James Moriarty for third. When was the last time Moriarty was off the top step of the podium? They come out and stand on the podium. Moriarty’s still smiling.”

**“Yeah, I’m not convinced he’s not still angry.”**

“He looks more than a little unhinged. 

“The ladies present them with flowers and bottles of champagne. Rosa immediately starts shaking his. He pops the cork and sprays Holmes — who laughs! The three of them are obliged to stand together on the top step for photos. Oh, Moriarty is going to spray his champagne too — he aims it at Holmes who has begun shaking his bottle. He doesn’t generally open his champagne on stage… but as Moriarty douses Holmes, he pops the cork and splashes Rosa. He turns to Moriarty… he sets the bottle down and they pose together, arms aloft. 

“Moriarty throws his flowers into the crowd and leaves the stage. Rosa keeps his — he likes to give them to his wife. Holmes follows Rosa…

“A big thank you to all our listeners today! I hear Sebastian Moran is almost in — then they’ll have the green jersey presentation.

“Ah, our cameraman has gone backstage. Homes is signing the stack of yellow jerseys that will be handed out as gifts to dignitaries and sponsors. Rosa has found Mrs. Rosa.”

**“Oh, that’s sweet. She has their baby with her.”**

“The Rosas had their first child in December. She smiles at her daddy.

“A big group has just ridden across the line. Sebastian Moran has arrived… and he’s going directly backstage, still wearing his helmet and cleats. He wants to talk to Moriarty, but Jim is heading back to the Sphere bus.”

**“Ouch. That was cold.”**

“Mycroft Holmes’ Amstel teammates are mobbing him backstage! He gets a big hug from fellow  
‘cross racer Greg Lestrade — winner of two stages this week! — Henry Braun, another winner of multiple stages, pats the yellow jersey winner on the back. Holmes looks overwhelmed.”

**“There’s definitely going to be a party tonight.”**

“It’ll be the hottest ticket in town. A sip of champagne, an ice bath and in bed by half nine.”

**“Heh, heh… they will at that. The lifestyle of a bike racer isn’t as glamourous as you might imagine.”**

“Sebastian Moran is taking the stage. He accepts the green jersey… looks like Moriarty’s defeat has affected Moran, he’s not taking much pleasure in this win.”

**“He and Moriarty are roommates on the road. I understand they’re close friends.”**

“That explains it — it’s hard to celebrate your win when your best friend has had such an epically miserable day.”

**“I’m really glad I’m not having dinner with Sphere tonight.”**

“Me too, Simon. Me too.

“That’s the end of our broadcast today. I hope you enjoyed Paris-Nice — we’ve seen plenty of cracking racing. Sprints, crosswinds, breakaways and finally an epic lone attack that upended the top ten at the eleventh hour. We’ve certainly enjoyed bringing it to you. This is Rupert Yates and Simon Harris signing off.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A commentator like Rupert would talk for five or six hours during every stage of the race and are often paired with a retired pro racer. 
> 
> Hope this extra long chapter conveys a sense of what watching a stage sounds like... it both way more exciting and at times, way more boring, than this.
> 
> FYI Lance Armstrong (total prick) actually did chase down someone who had crossed him, preventing him from going in the breakaway. It’s unbelievably dickish. And a few years ago, a rider did go off early and destroyed all the competition. The race leader (a multiple grand tour winner) was reduced to chasing with only his main competitor for company. He lost the yellow jersey.
> 
> I love your comments — thank you for making my day!
> 
> NEXT WEEK, for the first time, Greg’s POV!
> 
>   
> **** And now a LOOONG list of cycling terms and context:
> 
> parcours - The profile of the race or stage route.
> 
> category two - hors category - Climbs are divided into five categories: 1 (most difficult) to 4 (least difficult) – then there’s the ‘Hors Categorie’, denoted by HC which represents the most challenging of ascents. 
> 
> relegated - a judge's decision to assign a lower place to a rider after a rule infraction. Sprinters who fail to hold their line in the final meters and endanger the other racers are generally given the last place of their group.
> 
> Commisaires - the race judges. They are in cars on the course and watching all the camera feeds.
> 
> race book - maps, profiles and descriptions of each stage given to the riders.
> 
> grupetto - also autobus - a group of cyclists who form a large group behind the leading peloton. The autobus forms on mountain stages when non-climbers can't keep up and drop off the back of the peloton during the climb. 
> 
> captain on the road - an experienced and tactically savvy racer who can direct the other racers on the team within the race.
> 
> hunger knock - also bonking - Sudden fatigue as a result of glycogen depletion from not having taken in enough nutrition. 
> 
> drafting - occurs when a cyclist moves into an area of low pressure behind another cyclist, reducing the wind resistance and the amount of energy required to pedal.
> 
> feed zone - designated place along the course of a bicycle race where it is permitted for the riders to receive food and energy drinks from their team support personnel.
> 
> musette - cloth bags with long straps that carry food and replenishments for cyclists on long races. Team members hand these bags to their racers in "Feed Zones"
> 
> 188 centimetres – 6’2”
> 
> 60 kilograms – 133 lbs
> 
> Virtual Yellow Jersey - during a race when a racer is far enough ahead of the race leader that he has completed the race thus far in less time.
> 
> all-rounder - true stage race contenders, with the ability to climb with the best of them and also time trial well.


	4. PARIS-ROUBAIX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg Lestrade has always wanted to win Paris-Roubaix.

Greg Lestrade had wanted to win Paris-Roubaix — also known as ‘the Hell of the North’ or ‘a Sunday in Hell’ — since he was eight years old. That year he had watched the legendary Lion of Flanders, Johan Museeuw, win the race from the outskirts of Paris to the velodrome in Roubaix in epic conditions. Museeuw and all the racers had battled the wind and rain all day — they were wet and covered from head to toe in mud as they roared across the medieval cobblestones in a single-minded crusade to ride their bikes across the finish line first.

Watching Museeuw on telly, Greg had recognised something within himself. It was an electric moment of self-discovery — he and Johan Museeuw were _alike_ in some ineffable way that he could not define. But it was important.

He’d gotten a poster of Museeuw for his bedroom wall and when he looked at it, his skin prickled with that excitement.

Greg had ridden his bicycle every day since. 

Last year, he had gotten to race Paris-Roubaix. Hugo had told him to go in the early break and Greg had. It had been _wonderful_! Greg and four companions flying through the French countryside, taking on the cobbled sectors… 

It was not unlike cyclocross. It required the same sort of endurance, the same sorts of efforts and the expert bike-handling skills ‘cross had given him — but for five hours instead of one.

Greg had loved every second. He finished twelfth — an excellent placing for a debut ride. And more importantly, he had helped his teammate, Michael Van Winder win. 

This year, despite riding with the defending champion, Greg intended to win.

Only the week before, he had intended to win Ronde van Vlaanderen — the Tour of Flanders. Its course wended through Belgium on roads he had been riding for eighteen years. 

(Greg had kissed My for the first time on the side of one of those roads.)

But Greg had been unlucky. He’d crashed in the last twenty K, tangling wheels with Danny Finnegan and landing hard on the pavement. Finnegan’s team leader, Sebastian Moran, had won instead.

He didn’t like Moran much personally, but he respected the man’s talent and dedication. He was one of the hardest men Greg had ever met, completely unafraid to suffer. It was inspiring — and hard to beat even when he didn’t end up sprawled across the tarmac.

Moran was one of the favourites for Paris-Roubaix this year.

Greg had had a good spring — he’d won Strade Bianchi, two stages of Paris-Nice, E3, and Gent-Wevelgem. He’d finished third in Scheldeprijs just four days prior and been just off the podium in Milano-San Remo. 

But he _wanted_ Paris-Roubaix — Paris-Roubaix was special. Greg wanted to be the one hoisting the cobblestone over his head on the podium this year. Not any of his teammates and definitely not bloody Moran!

“Slim! Are you racing?” In the hotel the night before the race, Greg found himself in a lift with his former lover. He immediately felt foolish — he knew Mycroft was scheduled for this race. He hadn’t seen My much in the past month and he missed him.

“I am.” Mycroft chuckled and the beautiful sound pierced Greg to the heart. “I’m here to fetch bottles for you, chase down attacks, shelter you from the wind, etcetera, etcetera. Hugo thought it would be a good tune-up before the Ardennes Classics.”*

“Right.” Greg forced himself to smile. “Glad I can help with your training.” He said wryly. Mycroft Holmes was so fucking gorgeous, it was hard to breathe when Greg looked at him. He was so lean and tall and strong. He had legs for _days_ , a keen intelligence sparkling in his grey-green eyes, adorable freckles scattered over his nose and cheeks… Mycroft moved with the grace of a dancer… or a cat... it was all Greg could do not to throw himself at the man’s feet and beg him to take him back.

“I’ve always wanted to ride Paris-Roubaix… you’re going to win tomorrow, correct?”

The creamy skin, the lovely, long neck… “Would that make your “Sunday in Hell” complete?” Greg teased. He hoped the light tone disguised that he was dying inside.

Mycroft shrugged and his duffel shifted against his narrow hip. He wore a navy, long-sleeved shirt with a small Amstel logo embroidered on the left breast, and navy jeans, turned up and showing a red selvage at the ankle. The garments skimmed close to his body, clinging… though he knew it would hurt, Greg wished he were close enough to catch the other man’s scent… 

God! He was pathetic.

“Yes.” Mycroft said. “I would enjoy that.” A smile twitched fleetingly over his lips and Greg remembered the feel of those lips pressing against his skin. “Very much. You must endeavour to win to make _my_ race experience the best it can be.” One of the expressive eyebrows arched and the dangerous intellect glinted in his amused eyes.

Greg sketched a small bow. “I live to serve.” 

The doors opened and Mycroft inclined his head in farewell and left. 

Greg sagged under the weight of his emotions. How was Mycroft always so poised? A minute together in a lift and Greg was falling apart!

\---

As he lined up the next day in the cold, damp April weather, Greg reflected that Mycroft’s presence was a boon. Since he’d seen My in the lift, he hadn’t worried about the race at all.

Instead Greg had fretted about who Mycroft was rooming with (Cees Van Dyke again), how friendly My was with Tom Wallays and Toon Goosens at dinner. Who was texting him at breakfast — and why the texts made him smile. 

Greg loved My’s smile. He was happy that someone was making Mycroft smile.

He wished it was him.

Greg fretted if he should sit by Mycroft or at the other end of the table, if he was talking to him too much… or too little… how to be friendly and open without going off the deep end… without making Mycroft uncomfortable.

He fretted endlessly about whether Mycroft was seeing that smarmy sports announcer. If he was, that fucking Yates bloke had better be good to Slim, better make him ridiculously happy — or Greg would have something to say about it!

Greg sighed.

He knew he had to get over Mycroft. He couldn’t keep mooning over the man. Greg was a grown up, for chrissakes. He would be a father in a few weeks. He had to stop acting like a hormonal teenager with his first crush.

Love… if Greg could stop loving Mycroft Holmes he would!

No! he wouldn’t! Despite how much it hurt, Greg couldn’t bring himself to regret being with Mycroft. It had been the happiest months of his life, living in the guest house and spending most of his time with Slim, riding, talking, teasing... best mates... who’d eventually become lovers… oh, the heady, joyful days they’d been lovers… 

The only thing Greg regretted was ruining everything. He was an idiot, an absolute bell-end.

Pulling that stupid stunt during the World Championships… Greg should have known better! He had allowed excitement and desperation to guide him — he’d wanted to tell Mycroft the news right away, tell him that was _free_! He _had_ assumed they’d get back together as soon as Mycroft knew.

He wasn’t free. Greg was bound by his feelings for Mycroft. 

Greg _knew_ Mycroft still had feelings for him too — he could read it on his face when he saw Greg, the slight widening of his eyes, the nervous swallow and the deep breath… how carefully My’s eyes avoided him, skittering away if Greg looked up. He _knew_ it was difficult for Mycroft to be in Greg’s company. He knew that it hurt him too. 

But Mycroft never showed it — beyond his little tells, Mycroft seemed completely laissez-faire. How did he do it? Greg didn’t know how to be indifferent. His emotions were an over eager puppy running full tilt at the object of his affection, barking and jumping and licking and wagging and begging for pets and hugs. 

Greg struggled to keep that bounding puppy hidden behind the scraps of dignity he had left.

With all this angst running on endless loops through Greg’s mind, he hadn’t worried about Paris-Roubaix at all.

Arriving at the start, Rupert Yates — _of course_ —had popped up and buttonholed Mycroft. Greg gritted his teeth and followed Van Winder to the staging area. But he couldn’t stop himself from turning back to watch his ex-lover with his new man. 

The commentator had his microphone and a cameraman in tow — he was there to get pre-race interviews. But he wasn’t interviewing Mycroft. The cameraman had wandered off and the microphone was pointed at the ground, and Yates had stepped close to Mycroft to say something personal. He could see the man’s smile.

Greg _was_ jealous. He turned away and took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Jealousy was normal, he reminded himself. It was what he did with it that mattered. He would _not_ make his jealousy Mycroft’s problem.

When Mycroft joined them, he was frowning. Greg raised his eyebrows in a silent question.

Mycroft moved closer and pitched his voice for only Greg to hear. “There’s a rumour going around the press that you were at fault in Finnegan’s crash — at Ronde van Vlaanderen. That maybe it was purposeful. Meant to disadvantage Moran.”

“What? That’s ridiculous!” Greg was astonished. “Finnegan took _me_ out!”

“I know.” Mycroft said. “The video is clear — Finnegan changed his line, not you.”

“Who would say something like that?!” Despite Mycroft’s assurance, the adrenaline was sharply nauseating.

“It’s Sphere trying to put you off balance.” Mycroft told him, keeping his voice soft. “No one believes it. Even without the video, Rupert was sceptical. Everyone knows your character.” 

_Rupert_! “But everyone will repeat it.” Greg said bitterly. The commentators talked for _hours_ , they talked about anything and everything to fill the time. 

“Everyone knows Finnegan is a sketchy rider.” Mycroft said matter-of-factly. “After what he did to Henry at Paris-Nice.”

“They’ll say it’s retribution.” Greg moaned. “Finnegan is out with a collarbone. He’s sympathetic.”

“I shouldn’t have said anything.” Mycroft said, his expression rueful.

“No. No, I’m glad you did.” Greg assured him. It was true, it was better to know. “Thanks.”

“Put it out of your mind.” Mycroft said. For a moment his brows knit in worry, but then he smirked and poked two fingers into Greg’s chest — touching him for the first time since Greg had congratulated him at Paris-Nice. “You promised to win, give me the full ‘Sunday in Hell’ experience.”

Greg couldn’t help the happy little curl of hope in his stomach. “Right. I’m being selfish. Today is all about _you_.”

“And don’t forget it.” Mycroft warned with a last poke.

He _cared_! Mycroft _cared about him_!

Together they rode into the press of riders behind the lead car. Waiting for the race to begin, straddling his bike next to his teammates — all in the gold, long-sleeved Amstel jerseys and neat black shorts (except for Mycroft who wore black knickers that covered his knees) — Greg abruptly felt _ready to race_. He had a lot of pent up emotion to work off. 

Greg needed to tire that eager puppy, wear him out so he would curl up and with a sigh, go to sleep.

It was a grey day, dirty from overnight rain, the heavy air promising more rain soon. The wind moaned between the buildings and trees of Compiègne as they rolled out. Greg smelled the embrocation that his soigneur Benny had insisted upon rubbing into the skin of his legs in lieu of knickers — he hated racing in tights, it made his legs feel tied up. The capsaicin in the embro brought blood to the skin, making his legs feel warm.

_Why was Sphere lying about the crash with Finnegan? What did they get out of it?_

World War I had ended in Compiégne. Riding past a memorial, Greg thought about his great-great grandfather and two great-great granduncles who had died on the Somme. He’d read some histories of the war… what it was like, living in the trenches… 

And he was worried about a stupid rumour! Greg shoved it to the back of his mind — it was time to pay attention to the race. Past time! The sik kilometre roll-out was neutral but if a rider didn’t jockey for position, he ended up at the back. His teammates Mick Van Winder and Tug Goosens were already moving up towards the front of the peloton.

With a touch on Mycroft’s handlebars to get his attention, Greg began working his way to the outside of the pack where he could move forwards more easily. A glance under his arm showed him that Mycroft and Matteo Vizzini had followed. That was good. Amstel needed to put someone in the early break, and it would not be easy. It was a whole-team effort.

On rare occasions, a rider in the early break survived to the end of the 259 kilometres and won the race — it had happened in 2011, Johann Vansummeren had had a _very_ good day and ridden away from the other men in the break with 19 k to go and had won the biggest race of his career — while his team leader had fumed behind, forbidden to chase his own teammate, watching as the race slipped through his fingers. 

As My had slipped through Greg’s... _stop it! Just... STOP._

But it was much more likely that the break would stay out front until a group of favourites caught them in the final twenty or thirty kilometres. Having a man up the road who could work for the team leader when he caught up was a definite advantage. 

More importantly, Amstel wouldn’t be obliged to sit on the front of the peloton and chase all day. They could save energy for when it really counted.

The flag dropped and instantly three men shot off the front — one wore a gold jersey. It took Greg a moment to identify Matteo Vizzinni. Another rider wore the aqua and green kit of the Tashkent team, the third was the red of LPT.

The Sphere, Lotto and Prime Tutoring California teams chased the three down before they got more than ten seconds. The peloton was ripping along at an angry 55 kph. It was another two kilometres before it calmed down enough for another group to attempt to go.

Two men got away and immediately four more bridged up to them. Greg searched for a gold jersey… and did not find one. Vitola and Van Dyke went to the pointy end and pursued the six racers. Cinestar had missed out too, one of their riders helped the two from Amstel. They dragged back the six escapees.

This went on and on. Greg himself attacked once — but despite there being two Sphere racers in the break with him, Sphere dragged the peloton up to the break. They _really_ did not want Greg Lestrade to go up the road. He supposed it was a compliment.

Mycroft took his turn. The break of four — one each from Sphere, Elettrico Meridionale, and Prime Tutoring in addition to Mycroft — actually got good separation and built their lead up to twenty-six seconds. For a few minutes, Greg thought it would stick.

LPT and Lotto chased, closing the gap. 

They’d covered 45 kilometres at a ferocious pace when it began to rain. Greg wanted to laugh — he could see some of the other racers deflating, hunching over their handlebars. For them this had become an ordeal to get through, ideally without injury.

Greg thought the next break attempt would stick. 

Toon Goosens jumped. The big dutchman didn’t care about rain. A Sphere and a Cinestar bridged, and the three began pulling through. They were working hard.

The lurid pink of Prime Tutoring and the red of LPT were the next to jump across. Finally, a big Tashkent bloke tried to go. He got caught between the break and the peloton, trying to cross the twenty-one seconds to the group of five. Matteo Vizinni shot forwards and joined the Tashkent racer. Together they bridged painstakingly to the breakaway. 

The sense of urgency had left the peloton and the speed dropped to 44 kph. The break was established.

Greg ate a bar and drank some of the water from his bottle.

Tom Wallays rode ahead of him, Michael Van Winder behind. Now that Goossens had gone in the breakaway, they were the three Amstel riders with the best chances of winning this race. Three more Amstel riders were somewhere in the peloton. They would come together in another forty k to jockey for position before they encountered the first section of pavé.

The pavé is what defines Paris-Roubaix. The racecourse wends through northern France, taking the riders on a succession of narrow, one lane, medieval roads paved with cobblestones — pavé in French. As these roads are so old, and mostly only used by farmers now, the pavé has deteriorated and separated. They sag under the weight of generations of wheels, packed down, the centre bowing up and sprouting clumps of grass in the gaps. There are chasms between some of the stones that can eat a wheel. Flat tyres are commonplace. 

It’s rough going, riding the _secteurs_ of pavé. The uneven cobblestones jolt the bike, the endless shocks vibrating up through the frame into your arms and shoulders. It’s exhausting and relentless. There are thirty _secteurs_ of pavé, each rated on a scale of one to five stars — one being the easiest to ride, five being the most difficult. Not that any are easy.

When it’s dry, the dust and gravel on the pavé make them slippery. When it’s wet it’s a muddy mess that’s twenty times as slick and treacherous. Puddles form that hide the submerged potholes and jagged edges. It’s mudwrestling on bikes. 

The course is so challenging that special bikes have been developed with vibration-damping frames — that are still fast and ridiculously lightweight. Wider, thicker tyres reinforced with cotton are glued to hardy wheels equipped with disc brakes. In the past, wheels have disintegrated on the cobbles, seatposts have broken, the stem that holds the handlebars have sheared in half, and bodies have been battered and broken on the ancient stones.

More than in most races, luck is key in Paris-Roubaix. The winner is not only one of the strongest, hardest men in the peloton, able to ride full-on for 100 k in fretful spring weather over the roughest of roads, he has to be lucky.

Was Greg feeling lucky? Mycroft rode up beside him — he had three water bottles stuffed down the back of his jersey and two more in his pockets. He’d gone back to the Amstel follow car and collected the _bidons_ for the rest of the team. He fished out a bottle and offered it to Greg.

Greg took it, savouring Mycroft’s smirk. His gold jersey had darkened with damp and it made the strip of skin at his wrist look like alabaster. “Thanks, Slim.”

Mycroft bobbed his head and rode up to Tom Wallays.

“ _Secteur_ 30 in ten kilometres.” Hugo said in Greg’s ear. All of the Amstel riders would hear it through their race radios — and all the other teams would be hearing the same from their race directors. The peloton accelerated as everyone competed to be near the front before they turned onto the pavé.

 _Secteur_ 30 was 2.2 k long and was rated three stars. It was only wide enough for three or four men to ride abreast. And with 175 racers, there was no room to move up on the pavé. Those caught in the mosh pit of racers would have to slow for the corner and then sprint the first thirty metres of the cobbles. They could be stuck behind slower racers. They would be in greater danger of crashing — or getting caught behind a crash. It was more difficult to choose a relatively smooth line, so more flat tyres happened in the bunch.

Everyone wanted to be one of the first twenty riders.

Lines of men in matching kit formed, each team racing to place their leader at the head of affairs. Amstel was strong and coordinated, and six gold jerseys pushed forward, muscling their way to the front. Greg was fourth wheel behind Wallays, Vitola and Mycroft, beside him a row of black-clad sphere racers, and on the inside, the Lotto and Giant riders who had been keeping the break in check, all competing to get to the corner first. Greg stuck out his elbows as Sphere pressed in on him.

Mycroft leaned his bike into the corner ahead of Sphere, putting himself directly behind a big Lotto man who led the peloton over the stones. Fuck, Mycroft was strong! His body was a whipcord of muscle, his long fingers gripped the tops of his bars, the red Amstel gloves and the red racing stripes down the outside of his knickers already dull with mud. He flew over the pave, oblivious to the stiff cross-headwind and the cold, fretful rain. 

He was beautiful. 

The Lotto man had found the very edge of the old road, the narrow strip where packed dirt met the stones. It was smoother there. Vitola had switched to the centre of the road, where the relatively unbroken stones formed a convex path and Wallays sat behind him. Greg followed Mycroft’s wheel over the smooth dirt path hardly wider than the width of his tyre. Fans lined the road, so close Greg’s elbow skimmed cheering arms and chests. Team soigneurs stood among the fans, holding wheels so they could jump in and swap out a flat in as few seconds as possible. The cars could not follow the race onto the pavé.

Soon enough, the narrow, smooth strip ended, and Mycroft was forced onto the jolting stones. He switched neatly into the centre, ahead of Mikel Vitola.

A Sphere rider was jockeying for position, trying to horn in between Mycroft and the Latvian. It wasn’t Moran, this rider was shorter than the winner of Ronde van Vlaanderen. Moran rode level with Mycroft on the opposite side of the road. 

Mycroft pulled them back onto tarmac and eased off the front. Greg put out an arm, touching the small of his back to keep him from disappearing into the pack. Mycroft’s face was red from the effort, but his breathing wasn’t laboured. Grey mud spattered his cheeks and he’d pulled the clear-lensed sunglasses down his nose where he could peer over them while they continued to block the mud from his eyes. Rain beaded on his helmet.

“Nice job.” Greg murmured, pulling his hand back. His fingers tingled inside his gloves. How someone as slim as Mycroft Holmes could generate the power to ride cobbles in the wind, Greg would never know. Someone as light as My should not be so adept. Cyclocross had made him a more complete racer.

Had Roman Garin raced the classics? Greg would have to look it up later.

Hugo warned them of the next strip of pavé, and the race to the front began again. This time they sat behind Sphere and Lotto.

It had grown gloomy in the hours it took to get to the decisive Arenburg _secteur_. The rain wasn’t heavy, but it was constant, as was the wind. The shoulders of some of the racers steamed as their bodies heated the water soaked into the cloth. Greg had given up on his sunglasses, shoving them into a pocket as he grabbed a gel.

The race traversed the forest of Arenburg — Trouée d'Arenberg —162 k into the 259-kilometre race. The road through the forest had been built during Napoleon’s reign and was the first _secteur_ rated five stars, the most difficult. Though it is almost 100 k from the finish line in Roubaix, it has become a symbol of the race.

 _“Paris–Roubaix is not won in Arenberg, but from there the group with the winners is selected.”_  
— Jean Stablinski, pro racer 1952-1968

i.e. a rider didn’t win in Arenberg, but he could very easily lose the race there.

 _“It's the true definition of hell. It's very dangerous, especially in the first kilometre when we enter it at more than 60kh. It's unbelievable. The bike goes in all directions. It will be a real spectacle, but I don't know if it's really necessary to impose it on us.”_  
— Filippo Pozzato, pro racer 2000-2018

The competition to be one of the first riders onto the pavé at Arenburg was angrier and fiercer than any before. Tom Wallays led Greg and Van Winder to the front early, and there they rode faster and faster as they fought to keep their advantage. It was some of the most intense and dangerous racing of Greg’s experience. Riders pressed in on all sides. He heard a crash somewhere behind him and had only a second to be glad it wasn’t him on the tarmac. 

Greg wasn’t sure where his other teammates were — and he was too busy keeping himself in position and intact to look for them — but 500 metres before the entrance to the Arenburg, Mycroft popped up at his shoulder, insinuating himself between Greg and a Sphere racer named Willem Van Hooydonk. 

Greg immediately felt better — he trusted Mycroft, he trusted Mycroft to ride straight and true no matter what the conditions. The rest of these hooligans might be professionals, but it felt sketchy as hell.

They roared onto the pavé, the fifth and sixth riders onto the bricks, their bikes jolting and jumping. Mycroft calmly elbowed Van Hoodonk off his shoulder — the heavier rider wanted Mycroft’s position — and held his line.

Tom Wallays went to the front and hammered, using his prodigious time trialling prowess to pull the bunch over the treacherous pavé as hard and fast as he could. Mud flew up from the tyres, splattering the riders, coating Greg’s face and neck. He could taste it on his lips, on his teeth, feel it pelt his skin. He splashed through a puddle and felt it wet his calves.

Greg glanced at his computer and saw they were travelling 58 kph — they’d barely slowed at all from the furious pace they’d ridden onto the _secteur_.

The crowds in the forest were thick, fans lined up six deep right up to the edges of the cobblestones. It was like riding through a tunnel of rain ponchos with screaming, shouting, moving walls. Umbrellas and national flags bobbing dangerously in the riders’ path.

Greg hit something solid and his front wheel bounced into the air. He landed poorly, his rear wheel slipping, but with an instinctual flail, he kept it upright. He was fearful that he’d flatted — it was difficult to tell, the drag he’d usually feel from a flat was indistinguishable from the drag of the harsh road surface jiggering up through his forearms. It didn’t matter, he’d ride full-on until the wheel came apart under him.

He lost sight of Mycroft, Von Hoodonk finally forcing himself into Mycroft’s place in line. Greg felt the man’s handlebars rub against his own and he gritted his teeth in irritation. Was the man _trying_ to crash him? He wanted to shove the other rider off, but he didn’t dare look up from the cobbled road, from the wheel in front of him.

The two point four kilometres of torture seemed to last an hour. Turning onto pavement felt like a reprieve.

On the tarmac, Greg took a look backwards — there were groups and clumps exiting the _secteur_ behind his group of roughly thirty racers. Seeing this, Greg urged Cees Van Dyke to the front to make it difficult for those racers to catch back up. Sphere and Lotto had the same impulse, each sending a man to the front to pull.

In the smaller group, it wasn’t as difficult to stay near the front of the pack — but Greg was careful not to become too comfortable! The next _secteur_ was only 3.6 k from the exit of the Arenburg.

It was rated three stars, and after the Arenburg, it almost felt smooth. 

The second _secteur_ rated five stars was in forty-five kilometres — the Mons-en-Pévéle. After the Mons-en-Pévéle, there were fewer than fifty kilometres to the finish line. It would very likely make another selection, whittling the number of riders down again. If a racer left that _secteur_ in the first group, he had a chance to win.

In between the Arenburg and the Mons-en-Pévéle were seven more _secteurs_ of pavé. Greg had to get through them all without crashing on the rain-slicked cobbles, flatting or getting separated from the front group.

There had already been crashes and Amstel was not unscathed. He’d heard Hugo on the radio saying that Mikel Vitola had come to grief in the Arenburg forest. He spared a second to hope that his teammate was not badly injured.

Assessing the group, Greg counted only five of the favourites — including his teammate Mick Van Winder — in the reduced peloton. He didn’t know if the others had flatted, crashed, gotten caught behind a crash or simply couldn’t keep pace. Ultimately it didn’t matter. What mattered was who _had_ made it.

In addition to himself and Van Winder, Sebastian Moran was there, Angel Navarro the big Spaniard from Cinestar, Lotto’s Stijn Maes, and Johnny George from Primary Tutoring California. There were also a number of ‘B’ list favourites — like Tom Wallays — and domestiques who if everything went their way were capable of taking the win — like Mycroft Holmes.

But Greg was keeping his eyes on Moran, Navarro, Maes and George.

Their group swelled some as racers caught up — and then was cut in half when a Cinestar rider went over his handlebars in the _Sars-et-Rosiéres secteur_ and either took out or held up at least twenty riders. Wallays and Van Hooydonk burned a few matches making sure none of them would catch up again.

Last year’s winner, Mick Van Winder’s luck ran out . He flatted, and drifted off the back of the group, cursing. Van Dyke must have been behind the crash earlier — only three gold jerseys remained. Most of the other teams only had one or two racers in the bunch.

In this state, they arrived at the fearsome, five-starred _Mons-en-Pévéle_. Tom Wallays made the end of the infamous _secteur_ his finish line, and — with Greg on his wheel — gave _everything_ as they pounded across. It was gruelling. Wallays rear tyre spewed mud in Greg’s face as they rocked and shocked over the old cobblestones. A Lotto racer slid out right next to Greg, his wheels going sideways and taking out the only Egypt Cycling racer and Johnny George, his fluorescent pink jersey flashing at the side of Greg’s vision. Greg gripped his bars tightly — tighter than he ever did normally — muscling them into keeping a straight line.

Wallays sprinted the last 200 metres to solid pavement — his finish line — and then pulled off to the side to ride slowly to the finish on his own. Greg took a turn on the front and as he dropped back, counted the racers. He was in a group of eight — himself, Moran and Van Hooydonk from Sphere, Navarro, Arsenault, and Vasquez from Cinestar, a Tashkent rider and Mycroft.

Mycroft was squeezing a gel into his mouth. Right. Greg should eat too. He fished a gel from the sodden pockets on the small of his back, and ripped it open with his teeth as Vasquez began to hammer on the front.

They caught the breakaway. Matteo Vizzinni, his gold jersey grey with mud, passed to the back of Greg’s group and after a valiant attempt to match the pace, dropped out the back. With him went the Cinestar, rider from the break. The indefatigable Tug Goossens assessed the situation, nodded once at Greg and went to the front to trade pulls with Mycroft, Arsenault and Van Hoodonk. The man was a tank. 

The pace was punishing and did not let up regardless of the surface beneath their tyres. One by one, the men from the break dropped away, unable to keep up — all except Goossens, who continued trading pulls.

Arsenault faltered and they left him behind.

Vasquez took his place. A kilometre later, he too fell off the pace. Angel Navarro was isolated, all his Cinestar teammates gone.

Mycroft drifted to the back, no longer pulling through. 

As Goossens ripped their legs off over a _secteur_ with a rating of four, Navarro let the length of a wheel open up between himself and the rider ahead. The wet crosswind shook the trees and the gap opened slowly, three metres… ten metres… twenty meters… the Spaniard could not overcome the wind on his own. Greg did not think of him again.

Six racers remained. Moran, Van Hooydonk, the Tashkent racer, Greg, Mycroft and Goossens. Mycroft leaned low over his bars, his head bowed with fatigue as he skipped his turns on the front. He wouldn’t be with them much longer.

But Greg felt good — well, he felt wet and grubby and his socks squished in his shoes with every revolution of his pedals, but his legs were strong. He ate another gel and visualised dropping Moran…

In his ear, Hugo told them that the last _secteur_ rated five stars — the _Carrefour de l’Arbre_ — was fifteen kilometres ahead. 

Greg thought Moran would attack on the pavé at Carrefour.

He examined the list of _secteurs_ taped to his stem. There were four shorter _secteurs_ between them and _Carrefour de l’Arbre_. The one that ended only half a k before Carrefour was rated four stars.

If he attacked there, perhaps he could take Moran by surprise.

Greg drank half of his bottle. There was a sticky carbohydrate drink in it that would fuel his final efforts. Again he visualised riding away from the big man from Sphere.

 _Camphin-en-Pévéle_ was 1.8 kilometres long. Greg waited until Von Hoodonk pulled off to let Goossens take over — and he sprinted hard!

Behind him, he knew, Goossens would drop back behind the Sphere and Tashkent riders whilst they chased him. Greg hammered his bike over the pavé, puddles splashing, mud flying, always looking for the smoothest, safest line through the cobblestones. Dripping rain ponchos lined the old road, umbrellas overhead, shielding him from the worst of the howling wind. A gold-jacketed mechanic holding up a wheel stood among them — a bright spot in the dreary wall of fans. The man screamed at him to keep going — he must have a gap! Greg pushed on.

Only when he arrived at the pavement did he sneak a look under his arm. Moran was chasing, Mycroft and the Tashkent riders on his wheel. Goossens and Van Hoodonk were gone.

Flipping into a harder gear, Greg spun his pedals faster.

Moran caught him just as they turned onto the Carrefour _secteur_. Mycroft still sat on his wheel, looking much more chipper than he had only minutes before. He flashed a little smirk at Greg and Greg realised that he’d been shamming fatigue to save his strength. 

To save his strength for now! As soon as their eyes met and Greg registered the smirk, Mycroft bolted off the front onto the uneven pavé, forcing Moran to chase again.

The cobbles at Carrefour were like monoliths jutting up from the earth. They wanted to eat wheels, shred tyres. The narrow strip at the edge was solid mud — and host to crowds of roaring fans in ponchos and slickers.

Moran slowly reeled Mycroft back. Greg attacked.

It was exhausting. The endless juddering vibrations in his arms and shoulders as he sprinted. The air turned jagged in his lungs and his legs _burned_. But a peek under his arm showed him that he had a real gap — and Moran looked like he was fading.

The Tashkent racer pulled through, giving Moran a rest. The two of them cooperated well and painstakingly dragged themselves up to Greg. 

When they caught him, they looked at each other — after the attacks, Moran wouldn’t work with him. The pace slowed. 

Mycroft caught his eye. He raised an expectant eyebrow, surprising a laugh from Greg. My dropped back two metres, then stood up on his pedals and gunned it, picking up speed before he passed the Sphere and Tashkent racers. 

For a brief moment, Moran looked at the Tashkent rider, wanting him to chase. The man looked back at Moran. 

Moran took the reins and started chasing Mycroft. Greg followed, sucking the rest of the sticky liquid from his bottle.

It took longer for Moran to bridge this time — they slowed when Tashkent man went to the front, so Moran elbowed him aside and took over. It took an entire kilometre to ride up to Mycroft.

As they rode level with Mycroft, Greg sprinted again.

The commentators called this ‘the old ding-dong,’ taking turns attacking an isolated competitor who must chase both of you over and over until he breaks.

Greg’s legs complained but sitting behind Moran had allowed him to recover sufficiently. It hurt to ride this hard without letting up. But Greg could suffer for a long time.

He stole a look back and saw Moran toiling forty metres behind. The Tashkent racer was another handful of metres back from Moran.

Mycroft clung on behind the Sphere rider. But as the crosswind whistled over the heads of the fans, making the rain fall sideways, Greg knew that Mycroft was running on fumes — for real this time. He would try to stay with Moran only long enough to be sure that Greg got away for good.

He turned all of his attention to the road ahead, picking the smoothest path through the rough pavé, churning his legs like pistons. There were only thirteen kilometres remaining! Greg could live in the pain cave for thirteen measly k.

“Twenty seconds.” Hugo crooned in his ear. “Good, Greg. Good! You’re doing great! Twenty-two seconds.”

That was Greg’s gap over Moran. Twenty seconds might be nothing… or it might be insurmountable.

The _Gruson secteur_ was rated two stars. Greg didn’t slow at all for the entire eleven hundred metres. _Hem_ was slightly longer and rated three stars. He was almost there! Almost to Roubaix! He exited the _secteur_ knowing there were only five more kilometres to the finish line!

“Twenty-seven seconds.”

Moran hadn’t cracked. He was limiting the damage. If he still had Van Hooydonk, or if the Tashkent racer had been stronger, he’d be able to reel Greg in. But Van Hooydonk was minutes behind them by now. On his own, Moran was slowly losing time. Very slowly.

It was hard! It was so hard! Moran would catch him! Greg knew it! He couldn’t flog his rubbery legs any faster. 

_If it’s hard for you, it’s hard for him too._ Greg reminded himself. _Harder, because he’s chasing, he’s losing ground!_

The Roubaix velodrome appeared ahead of him and in the sweep of joy that rushed through his body, Greg’s crises was forgotten. He only had to ride into the velodrome, ride once around the cycling track and he would WIN!

_Greg would win Paris-Roubaix!_

“You’ve got this, Greg.” Hugo urged in his ear. “Come on, Greg, you’ve got this!”

Greg had raced track a few times — ridden a track bike (with a fixed gear and no brakes) around and around a velodrome just like the one in Roubaix. He had never loved it the way he loved cyclocross, but the banked cement track looked like home as Greg charged into the velodrome. He put his head down and _rode_.

When he reached the halfway mark, Greg saw that Moran was in the velodrome now too. He’d dropped Mycroft and rode alone, his face a mask of determination. 

He was too far behind! 

_Greg was going to win_!

He flew the last two hundred metres, hardly feeling the effort at all. As he crossed the line Greg celebrated, sitting up and pointing proudly at the big ‘AMSTEL’ across his chest, then flinging his fists in the air in victory. He had won!!!

It had been a team effort! All day long!

There were tears in his eyes as Benny took hold of his bike. Greg fell into his soigneur’s arms — heedless of the wet mud that covered him head to toe — and hugged him, giddy and overwhelmed and amazed. He had dreamed of this since he was eight years old! And it was _so much better than he’d ever imagined_!

Hugo Charpentier appeared and wrapped Greg in his expansive arms. “I’m so proud of you, Greg!” the sports director mumbled. “I knew you could do it!”

Moran crossed the line second, his kit and legs and arms and face and helmet all the same dull grey as Greg’s — as all the riders would be. It was a full minute before Toon Goossens rode in with the tenacious Tashkent racer and Angel Navarro. The three of them sprinted hard for the last place on the podium, the Tashkent man in his lurid aqua and green kit taking it by the width of his tyre.

By the time they were sprinting, a larger group was in the velodrome. Mycroft was in this group, along with Mick Van Winder. They knew he’d won — had heard it on their race radios — and smiles lit up their faces. Van Winder pumped his fist. Both of his teammates lifted their arms in triumph as they crossed the finish line.

Tug Goossens hugged him, laughing. Then Mick Van Winder and Mycroft joined in, mobbing him. Greg heard the cameras clicking and he held his teammates tighter. 

He giggled when they pulled back — they were all filthy, all coated in mud, indistinguishable but for height and build.

Phoebe, Amstel’s press officer, gave Greg a very tentative hug, laughing at the mud he left on her shoulder. “Go.” She said. “All of you, go get cleaned up. Podium in fifteen minutes!”

Benny led Greg to the velodrome’s showers, the other Amstel riders on his heels. Moran was already there, mud sluicing off his naked body. Greg had forgotten, it was a communal shower. He recognised Anthea, Mycroft’s soigneur, in the locker room, unpacking his duffel. She smiled happily at Greg, but she grabbed Mycroft around his muddy middle, embracing him despite his protests. When she let him go, patches of mud coated her jeans and jacket. Anthea did not appear to care.

Now that Greg looked, Benny was rather muddy too. Other soigneurs came in with more racers. Most came over to Greg and patted him on the back or gripped his hand in congratulations. 

Greg caught sight of himself in a mirror. His face was grey up to where his helmet had covered his forehead. There were wet tracks on his cheeks from tears that were still flowing. He looked like a bizarre Peirrot. 

He stripped off his kit. It was sodden, and filthy and mud had seeped between its fibres and stuck to his chest and thighs.

The shower was heavenly. Last year, Hugo had told him that as recently as fifteen years ago, the showers had only had cold water. Greg shuddered at the thought. Now that his core temperature was dropping, he really was becoming quite cold.

It felt great to be clean. His teammates were washing as he finished. Greg guiltily let his eyes linger on Mycroft’s long, thin form as he left. He really was beautiful, all ivory skin and freckles. Greg missed that body terribly. But only a fraction as much as he missed its owner.

Greg shook off the wave of melancholia. _He had just won Paris-Roubaix_! He had won a monument!*

Moran, wearing bib shorts and little else, turned towards Greg. “Congratulations, Lestrade. It was a good race.”

“Thanks!” Greg searched the man’s face, but, for once, saw no hostility. “Thanks.” He took Moran’s offered hand and they shook.

Then Moran grinned and for the first time, Greg noticed that he was objectively handsome. “I like the competition. It will be that much sweeter when I beat you next time.”

Greg laughed. “You don’t make it easy, but we’ll see.”

He turned back to Benny and his clean clothes wondering what had thawed the Sphere racer. 

Mycroft walked past, a towel wrapped around his narrow hips and Greg had to close his eyes to stop them following the slim figure across the room. God, Greg wanted him so much! For a moment, Greg wallowed in his regrets.

 _This is not the time_ He told himself sternly. Greg pulled on clean kit feeling slightly envious of the jeans and trousers the other riders were donning. _They aren’t on the podium_! He reminded himself. _I won_!

 _I won Paris-Roubaix_!

The giddy, giggly, overwhelmed feeling returned, and he had to sit down while he pulled on his socks. Thermal tights, gold jersey, more pats on the back, more congratulations. Tom Wallays limped in and Greg made a beeline for his teammate. Benny intervened before he could grab the man in a hug. “You just got clean!” He protested. 

Wallays laughed and grabbed Greg’s hand. “He’s right. Catch me later.”

“I will.” Greg vowed. “I will!” Without Wallays breaking legs over the Mons-en-Pévéle _secteur_ , Greg felt certain he would not be on the podium. Not the top step anyway.

As he turned back for his shoes, Greg saw that Moran was still in the dressing room. He was leaning against a locker, talking to Mycroft.

A complicated mix of emotion flooded Greg’s brain — territorial anger, alarm, shame, curiosity, jealously… he sat down to tie his trainers and strained to listen.

“…jy is’n gelukkig.” Moran purred. Greg couldn’t make sense of the words. “Moet ek jou gelukkig noem.”

“Ek verkies dat u my naam gebruik, Holmes.” Only when Mycroft spoke did Greg realise that they weren’t speaking Flemish or Dutch, but some related language. The words were tantalisingly familiar, yet he could not understand more than one word in five.

“Nie ‘gelukkig’ nie? Wat van skat dan?” Moran said, sounding pleased with himself. “Ja, Skatjie.”

Mycroft scoffed and shot Moran a look that Greg knew was carefully concealed disdain.

“Miskien kan ons ... bymekaar kom. Vir aandete?” Moran asked.

“Lestrade, Moran, Kidane.” A loud voice echoed through the locker room. “You’re needed at the podium.”

“Hulle bel jou.” Mycroft replied, gesturing at the official in the doorway. He turned away from Moran and shoved a foot in one of his shoes. Moran checked out Mycroft’s backside as he bent to tie the laces.

Greg stood up, fists clenched… but Benny pulled Greg towards the exit, handing him his jacket and recovery drink.

\---

“Well done, Greg Lestrade! How does it feel to win your first monument? And in such ripping fashion!?”

Greg didn’t find it difficult to smile despite his complicated feelings for Rupert Yates — _he had just won one of the hardest and most famous bike races in the world_! And he knew any animus he felt towards Yates was wholly because of his friendship with Mycroft. Because Yates got My’s smiles and confidences... because Yates might know what Mycroft looked like when he came, what he looked like afterwards, all soft and sleepy…

“It feels amazing.” Greg said, glowing. “And a bit like my legs might fall off.”

Yates laughed. “I don’t wonder! Has Paris-Roubaix been a big goal for you?”

“Yeah.” Greg laughed. “It’s been my main goal since I was eight. Paris-Roubaix is why I started cycling.”

“Truly? That’s fantastic! And now you’ve done it!” 

“Yeah. I can’t quite believe it.”

“It was a real team effort out there today — was this the plan? You were the team leader?”

“I was just one of several options for Amstel — Van Winder, Goossens, Wallays, they are all strong, fast guys who could have won this race. If Van Winder hadn’t flatted, he could be sitting here instead of me.” Greg said. It was true. “No, yeah, we brought a really strong team and the guys worked hard all day long protecting me and Mick. Tug and Tom sacrificed their own chances today — they were both integral to Amstel’s success… erm, my success. Matteo and Mikel were great too. And Mycroft Holmes…” 

Greg felt his face heat as he spoke the name of his ex-lover, and the look Yates gave him told Greg that he _knew_! He _knew_ about his relationship with Mycroft. Yates _knew_ how Greg had thrown it all away...

He sucked it up. Greg would not embarrass himself in front of Rupert Bloody Yates. “Erm… Holmes attacking in the final twenty k — I wouldn’t have been able to drop Moran on my own. He’s a beast. It was a real team effort. I’m glad I was able to seal the deal, justify all their hard work.”

“You’ve been having a great year so far, Greg — Cyclocross World Champion, winner of Strade Bianchi, E3 Binkbank, Gent-Wevelgem, and two stages of Paris-Nice and now Paris-Roubaix — and the cherry on top, I hear you’re about to become a father”

Greg blinked — this wanker knew he’d had a horrible year! And the baby… why bring up the baby? The baby Greg was trying so very hard not to blame for screwing things up with Mycroft.

But he didn’t think he could stop smiling if he tried — he’d _won Paris-Roubaix_! “Erm, yeah. A boy… in just a few weeks.”

Congratulations, Greg. And on your smashing win today! A real dream come true!”

“Thanks.”

\---

The podium ceremony _was_ a dream. Greg was awarded one of the huge cobblestones — that was the trophy for winning Paris-Roubaix, one of the stones from the ancient roads he’d raced to get here. He lifted it over his head in triumph — it was _heavy_!

Greg gamely shook his oversized bottle champagne and sprayed the bubbly at Moran and Bisrat Kidane, the Tashkent rider — he was Eritrean! — as they sprayed their champagne at him. He was anointed in sticky wine. His hands were wet with it when he grinned and shook with Moran and Kidane. 

Then it was over, and Moran offered to carry Greg’s flowers as he wrestled the cobble into his arms. If Moran were always like this, he wouldn’t be such a bad bloke.

 _He needed to stay away from Mycroft_!

Greg walked with Hugo, Phoebe and Benny back to the Amstel bus. Hugo opened the door and ushered Greg in first. His teammates cheered! Greg made a short speech, thanking them all in turn. He held up his cobblestone and they took turns hoisting it in their skinny arms. He changed clothes again, peeling off the kit sticky with champagne, and sighing happily as he donned comfy jeans and a jumper. Then he made the rounds, talking to each of his teammates — asking Mikel about his crash and injuries (nothing serious, thank goodness). He talked again to Hugo and ate the sandwiches Benny had made for him.

As they rode back to Antwerp, some of the guys sleeping, some on their phones, or chatting softly, Greg sat down next to Mycroft’s pod and pulled his knees up to his chest. 

_Be cool, Greg._ He told himself. _Don’t let him see how much you want him. Don’t make him uncomfortable._

“You were great today.” Greg said. “Attacking like that. It was perfect.”

Mycroft smiled. “How else were you going to make my Paris-Roubaix experience complete?” He murmured. He smiled and touched Greg’s shoulder. “It was perfect.”

“A perfect Sunday in Hell.” Greg smiled back. He shuffled his feet a little and licked his lips. “Hey,” he finally ventured. “Was Moran bothering you in the locker room? It’s not my business, I’m not…” Greg sighed. He was making a hash of this. “I don’t trust Sphere.”

“Nor do I.” Mycroft paused. “I think he was trying to chat me up.”

“Moran?” Greg ruthlessly strangled the possessive, territorial, jealousy. _Don’t let him see_.

“I’ve been trying to work out what his angle is.”

“Maybe he likes you.” Greg suggested softly. “That’s not so hard to believe.” 

Mycroft scoffed. “He’s with Moriarty.”

“What? He is?”

“Obviously.”

“Wasn’t obvious to me… but I believe you. He must not realise that you know.”

“No.” Mycroft agreed.

“What did he say exactly?” Greg asked. “He was friendly to me for once... maybe he’s turning over a new leaf.”

Mycroft gave him the ‘don’t be an idiot’ look. “There was some nonsense about calling me ‘lucky.’ I assume he was referring to Paris-Nice. I objected, of course, to being called ‘Lucky.’” Mycroft huffed impatiently. “He seemed amused. He said I was a treasure — _his treasure_. Then he asked me to dinner.”

“Yeah, ok. He was chatting you up.”

“Mm. But why?” Mycroft mused. “Moriarty was furious at Paris-Roubaix.”

“Was he? That smile... he looked insane.”

“That too.” Mycroft said. “I don’t think I told you. After the race when he came over to congratulate me — or so I thought — what he said was “I could have you made into shoes.””

“Shoes? Is that some kind of threat?”

“Unquestionably.”

“That’s… really disturbing.”

“Yes.”

“I have to say… this might be the wrong thing to say, My, but I’m afraid for you.” 

“You’re afraid because you aren’t, as my brother would say, completely stupid.” Mycroft smirked, but it fell from his face quickly. “I think fear is appropriate. Jim Moriarty is dangerous.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very dramatic Tour de France ends today. As I type, the peloton are riding the eight laps around the Champs-Élysées and in 22 kilometres a sprinter (probably) will win the last stage in Paris. It’s always a little sad when it’s over...
> 
> I hope you enjoyed a little peek into Greg’s mind. If I were an elite racer, Paris-Roubaix would be the race I would want desperately to win — it’s so hard, so historic... so Greg got to do it for me. 
> 
> As ever, your comments make me happy — I’m so glad to know that you guys are enjoying the series. Thanks!
> 
> *****  
> Ardennes Classics - three brutally difficult cycling classics held in mid-April in the Belgian Ardennes and southern Limburg in the Netherlands: Amstel Gold Race, La Flèche Wallonne and Liège–Bastogne–Liège. 
> 
> Monument - five classic cycle races generally considered to be the oldest, hardest and most prestigious one-day events in road cycling. They each have a long history and specific individual characteristics. They are Milan-San Remo, Ronde Van Vlaanderen, Paris-Roubaix, Liège-Bastogne-Liége, and Giro di Lombardia.


	5. LIEGE-BASTOGNE-LIEGE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Greg race another of the monuments of cycling. One that Mycroft had targeted since he was a boy.

Last year, Greg Lestrade had won Amstel Gold. He’d singlehandedly chased down the breakaway, towing five other racers, catching them in the last 500 metres before the finish line and then won the sprint against the members of the break _and_ the five men who’d sat in his slipstream. No one else was even close. The display of strength was staggering.

That had been before Greg knew what he could do — and before the peloton knew what he could do. 

Last weekend he had won Paris-Roubaix.

This year at Amstel Gold, Mycroft noted, every eye was on Greg. They followed his every move — if he went to the front, the front was swamped. If he attacked, the entire peloton sat on his wheel. If he had stopped at a café for coffee, the rest of the riders would follow him, trying to work out how it would win the race.

Simon Jones of Primary Tutoring California won Amstel Gold this year, from a late breakaway that did not include Greg Lestrade nor Sebastian Moran.

Four days later — on Wednesday —they raced La Fléche Wallonne. And on the Sunday after, they raced Liége-Bastonge-Liége. All three races took place in the southern region of Belgium and Holland called the Ardennes. Unlike Paris-Roubaix, Ronde van Vlaanderen and the other cobbled classic one-day races, the Ardennes classics were characterised by narrow, paved roads in more populous areas — meaning there was a surfeit of roundabouts, speed humps, bollards and other road furniture — and a number of short, steep climbs that brought out the climbers and general classification riders.

Riders like Mycroft Holmes.

La Fléche Wallonne was 210 gruelling kilometres that ended at a 128-metre hill called the Mur de Huy. a.k.a. the wall of Huy. The Mur de Huy had an average gradient of 9.3 percent, which is hard, especially for a sprint to the finish line. It has a _max gradient of twenty-six percent,_ which — if you have no frame of reference — is just this side of riding a bicycle up an _actual_ wall. That is not hyperbole. 

Mycroft jumped early on the Mur de Huy, hoping to get enough separation that he could hold it to the finish line. His timing was off — or he underestimated the competition or overestimated his ability to climb at speed. He was overtaken, his position giving him a perfect view of Charlie Magnussen crossing the line ahead of him. The other Magnussen brother, Augustus followed Charlie across the line looking put out that his twin had beat him. Two other riders timed their efforts better than Mycroft as well — he ended up fifth.

It was a disappointment. 

But Mycroft had lost bike races before. He would learn from the experience. And it was cold enough out that he was grateful to be able to ride directly to the team bus to wash up and change into a thick jumper and fleece-lined warm up trousers.

Everyone was cranky on the bus ride back to Antwerp. Julian Faure had worked hard all day for Mycroft and Phillipe Robert, the team’s climbing specialist.

“I fucking hate Augustus Magnussen.” Faure declared. “Charlie’s ok, but Augustus is a twat.”

Robert, who had finished fifty-sixth, grumbled something about “Sphere cunts.”

“Sunday.” Greg said. “Keep your powder dry for Sunday.”

“It was a good move.” Hugo Charpentier spoke up from the front of the bus. “Mycroft, jumping early. It will work better on Sunday.”

“He’s right.” Greg said to Mycroft. “Don’t wait for Saint-Nicholas to attack. Go on Cote des Forge.”

“Mmm.” Mycroft hummed. He was trying to meditate, trying to soothe the errant squirming of desire for Greg Lestrade that had begun to plague him again. He inserted his EarPods and turned up the white noise.

Four races together in fourteen days — after a month without seeing Greg — was straining Mycroft’s equilibrium. How had he done this during ‘cross season? 

\----

Sunday was cold and grey, overcast with a frigid wind blowing across the Ardennes — colder even than it had been at Paris-Roubaix. Mycroft had hoped to wear his shorts, to finally be rid of the knickers that extended down over his knees. Instead he found himself wondering if they would be warm enough. He put on his thickest socks and a wool base-layer that was almost long enough to cover his arse. As they lined up, he gave his jacket to Anthea, but he kept the wind-proof gilet and full-fingered gloves.

Liége-Bastogne-Liége, also known as La Doyenne, The Old Lady, was one of the five monuments of cycling. As its name suggests, it took the riders on a 254-kilometre route from the centre of Liége to Bastogne and then back again via winding roads riddled with steep hills. There were thirteen of the wall-like climbs in the race, eleven in the last 100 k. Because of its length and parcours, it is one of the most arduous races in cycling.

Mycroft’s grandfather had won this race four times. Mummy had spoken of Liége-Bastogne-Liége often — one of her earliest memories was being carried onto the podium in Roman Garin’s arms to stand with him on the top step. She was allowed to hold the shiny, silver trophy cup as her father carried her off the podium. The bouquet of flowers in his other hand was presented to her mother backstage. As far as Mycroft could tell, it was a warm and loving memory, one of few that Mummy had of her father. She still had a flower from that bouquet pressed in the leaves of a book.

It had raised Liége-Bastogne-Liége to almost mythic status in Mycroft’s mind. 

Though he knew it was pathetic, Mycroft could not shake the belief that if he won Liége-Bastogne-Liége, Mummy would be proud of him. So proud that she might forgive him his peccadillos.

Mycroft shook off the thought, shivering a little as he waited with his teammates for the race to begin. Greg stuck his hands under his arms to warm them and Julian Faure looked at the sky dubiously. Phillipe Robert cursed under his breath as the wind whistled through the waiting riders. Only Tug Goossens looked unaffected by the weather.

As they rolled out, the first fat flakes of snow began to fall.

For once, the break formed quickly, Tom Wallays representing Amstel and one of the Magnussen brothers in for Sphere, along with one each from Lotto, Banque Francais, Giant, LPT and Prime Tutoring California. Mycroft envied the seven men in the break — they would all be working hard, keeping their core temperatures high, staying warm. Sitting in the peloton, Mycroft felt his fingers and toes begin to numb. It made him impatient to get on with the racing. It was tempting to go to the front himself and pull, just to heat himself up.

He was slightly amazed to see that most of the riders didn’t share his sentiments. As the snowflakes came thicker and faster, so many of these hard men were daunted by the weather. Mycroft had raced in snow and ice and wet as a matter of course — cyclocross was a winter sport, after all. The trick was to keep one’s effort high enough to generate warmth.

On the way to Bastogne, the big flakes of snow wet the road and stuck to the grass, piling up. The peloton picked up its pace, riding faster and Mycroft was almost beginning to thaw… but the snow fell more heavily. It began to stick to the pavement and filled the air, making the world white. 

Mycroft’s glasses were wet and fogged. He took them off and squinted, trying to see farther than the riders ahead of him. Greg held his hand up to his forehead to shield his eyes from the snow. The white curtains of snowflakes and the dim, grey skies made the world alarmingly monochromatic. 

A racer near Mycroft cursed abruptly and began working his way to the edge of the peloton. There he climbed off his bike and raised his hand for his team’s follow car. He was quitting, abandoning the race! Mycroft was amazed. It was just a bit of snow!

OK, more than a bit. It was full-on. Snow was beginning to pile on racers’ shoulders and helmets. The pavement was slipperier than the predominantly off-road courses of cyclocross. Beyond that, it was _cold_. Colder than many of the Southern Europeans ever experienced in their own countries. As the wind blew the falling snow sideways, Mycroft shuddered at the chill. 

He let himself be pushed to the back of the bunch and raised his own hand. When the Amstel car came up, Mycroft slowed until he was riding even with the driver’s window. Hugo had it rolled down and he was peering at Mycroft with concern.

“Are you abandoning?” Hugo asked?

“What? No!” Mycroft exclaimed. “I came back for my coat. And if you have a buff or something, I can put around my neck?”

Hugo looked relieved. He spoke to the person in the back seat and soon enough he was handing Mycroft his jacket out the window. Sitting up, he put it on over the gilet and zipped it all the way up. It covered his pockets, but he’d just have to live with that. 

“Do you need a fresh bottle? Do you want to take some to the lads?”

“Yes, of course.” Mycroft gave Hugo his almost empty water bottle and took a full one. The coat had gore tech panels to cut the wind — and they did, Mycroft was already feeling warmer — but they weren’t stretchy like his spandex jerseys and bibs. He struggled to shove the extra bottles down the back of his coat. He ended up having to unzip it halfway for the bottles to fit.

The wind immediately sent cold fingers swirling over his chest and neck.

“I have this.” Hugo said, holding out a limp bit of fabric. “It might help.”

Mycroft took it, expecting a tube that he could slip over his head and wear around his neck. It was a soft hat with ear flaps on both sides. 

He was wearing a cap under his helmet, but this would be warmer. He unclipped his helmet and handed it and his cap to Hugo and situated the head covering so the flaps shielded his ears from the cold. He adjusted the fit of his helmet, tightening it over the hat. The chin straps held the flaps in place over his ears.

Thanking Hugo, Mycroft returned to the bunch.

The coat and hat made a difference, but despite them Mycroft was uncomfortable. His feet felt like blocks of ice and his fingers were painfully numb. The peloton simply was not riding fast enough to keep Mycroft warm. All of the climbers and GC specialists were like Mycroft — they had three percent body fat max and they did not carry any extra muscle. Toothpick arms and gaunt silhouettes felt the cold more keenly than the bigger, more muscular rolleurs and puncheurs. 

Before they had even reached Bastogne, at least twenty racers had abandoned — more than Mycroft had ever seen quit a race. And they weren’t even halfway!

As he passed out the fresh bottles, Mycroft collected the Amstel racers together. “We need to do something. We need to ride.” Mycroft told them.

“There’s still 160 kilometres. It’s too soon.” Phil Robert objected.

“It’s stupid, riding in the storm.” Julian Faure volunteered. “It’s dangerous — I can’t see shit! No one can see shit. The UCI should postpone the race. They don’t care about the riders! They don’t care about our safety.”

The conversation paused as the peloton navigated through a roundabout, dividing themselves into two groups, the larger group flowing left, a much smaller bunch taking the slightly longer right-hand path. Someone slid out on the wet tarmac and slammed to the ground, causing a chain reaction that sent at least ten more riders crashing to the pavement. The Amstel riders were held up, but not harmed.

“That’s it!” Faure declared. “This is stupid. I’m done.” He raised his hand for the Amstel car, guiding his bike to the curb.

Mycroft exchanged a glance with Greg.

The crash in the roundabout inspired a number of racers to abandon, not just Julian Faure. Mycroft was frankly astounded to see so many riders climb off their bikes.

“This _is_ stupid.” Toon Goossens declared as they caught up with the peloton. “Let’s ride — get this bloody race over with.”

Mycroft agreed heartily. He followed the big Belgian up the side of the bunch. At the front, the Amstel riders — Greg, Cees Van Dyke, Goossens, Robert, Mikel Vitola and Mycroft began a team time trial, each taking turns on the front. They didn’t ask anyone else to help — Mycroft didn’t care if he was ruining his chance to win La Doyenne this year, he was cold, damp and miserable, he couldn’t see more than three metres through the wall of snow, and he could no longer feel his feet or fingers. But Mycroft would rather lose a few toes than abandon a race, so the only remedy was to get it over with as quickly as possible. The only thing to do was to ride.

Amstel pulled the peloton into Bastogne. Fans lined the narrow roads, bundled up in down coats and warm hats coated with snow. They cheered as the riders navigated another roundabout and then bollards — a course marshal stood in the centre of the road blowing a whistle and waving a flag to alert the riders to the impediment. They flowed around him, Mycroft grateful for the man’s orange coat and flag. He wasn’t certain he would have seen him in time otherwise.

Parked cars on the course forced them to slow. A speed hump — invisible in the snow — surprised Mycroft. It surprised all of the riders, stealing the wheels from under Phillipe Robert. He hit the ground hard, taking Van Dyke with him.

On the race radio, Robert informed everyone that Cees had hurt his wrist and both of them were getting in the car.

Amstel continued their time trial with four racers. 

Instead of being heartening, the turn back towards Liége took the wind from their backs and put it in their faces. It had been difficult to see through the falling snow before, but now it was impossible. Huge snowflakes pelted Mycroft, flying into his eyes and stinging his cheeks.

The snow on the road was etched with snaking tyre tracks. There were the motos and then the bicycles of the racers, then the follow cars, all leaving long, waving trails in the snow. They were quickly filled in by the falling deluge, concealing the evidence of their passage.

Their pace dropped.

Greg poked him and shoved a gel into Mycroft’s hand. Mycroft couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. He opened the package with his teeth and squeezed. It was turgid with cold, half frozen and difficult to swallow. It gave Mycroft a brain freeze headache. He cursed under his breath as he forced the carbohydrate gel down his throat. 

He rooted under his coat, finding the pockets in his jersey and dug for the gels stored there — they too were cold and hard. He shoved them under the front of his jersey, stuffing them inside his bibs where they rested against his wool-covered belly. The frozen packets made him shudder as they leeched heat from his body, but they would be palatable when he needed them.

Snow was piling up on helmets, on arms and handlebars and shoulders. And on the roads. Mycroft’s tyre treads were white with embedded snow. Visibility was ridiculous — racers around him were ghostly spots of colour amongst the white. 

Mycroft was finally beginning to feel slightly less cold — working on the front of the group had gotten his blood flowing. He might be burning all his matches, but he should make it back to Liége with all his toes intact.

He was relatively content until they arrived at the base of the Cote de Saint-Roche — a 900 metre hill with an average gradient of 11.7 percent (and a max gradient of 17.6 percent) — the first of _nine_ hideously steep climbs on the course back to Liége.

On a normal day, they would be challenging. They filled the legs with lactic acid and punched the air from panting lungs. They _hurt_.

That kind of extreme gradient, one had to muscle the way up — standing on the pedals, gripping the bars and tugging on them to force the pedals down over and over without stopping — stopping would see the rider toppling sideways. 

Alternately, one could echelon — ride diagonally across the road then turn and ride diagonally back, creating switchbacks. It was slow and tedious, but it flattened out the gradient enough for aching legs to wend their way up. But that was impossible in the bunch.

With a collective groan, the peloton started the climb.

The slope began relatively gently, with a seven percent gradient. Momentum took Mycroft a couple metres, and then he downshifted and spun his pedals. He shot up the hill very much like he normally would, and Mycroft was heartened — perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad.

However, as soon as Mycroft stood up, his rear wheel lost traction and spun beneath him. He immediately sat down before he could crash, distributing more weight over the back wheel and it gained purchase. Mycroft was faced with a conundrum — he couldn’t stand on his pedals without losing his back wheel, but he would be hard pressed to ride a 17 plus percent grade in the saddle. Maybe if he had mountain bike gearing — a plethora of super-easy “granny gears” to spin and spin — he could do it. But it was impossible with the gears he had on his road bike. 

It was an agonising climb, trying to split the difference — to lift his bum off the saddle to force more power through his pedals whilst keeping enough of his weight over the back tyre. Mycroft had never climbed more slowly.

Good Lord, it hurt!

Around him, riders were dismounting and pushing their bikes up the hill. Tug Goossens, his jaw clenched with purpose, inched his way forwards so slowly that he fell over, hitting the pavement hard, still clipped into his pedals.

Mycroft managed a cyclocross dismount and staggered up the steepest part of the hill, his cleats sliding on the snowy pavement. He had to turn his toes outwards and plant the edges of his feet on the road. He dearly wished he were wearing his ‘cross shoes with their recessed cleats and rough tread rather than his road shoes with the big plastic platform that snapped into the clamps on his pedals jutting out from the hole in the bottom of his neoprene shoe covers. At least the neoprene gave him some traction — the smooth carbon bottoms of his shoes would have left him sliding backwards downhill. 

But everyone had the same problem.

He was one of the first to the top. Mycroft mounted his bike carefully, cognisant that leaping onto it as he would in ‘cross would likely send it and him sliding across the pavement on his arse.

The way down was terrifying! He was barely in control and unable to use his brakes — the wheels would lock, and he’d crash on the slick pavement — picking up speed as he coasted through corners, praying the road was flat. Even the slightest off-cambre tilt would steal his wheels from under him and send him smashing to the ground. Mycroft could hear the shouts and squeals and thumps of riders doing just that behind him.

He made it. Greg and Mikel Vitola made it down safely as well. They took up their places with Mycroft at the front, cutting the freezing headwind for the rest of the bunch. Tug Goossens — too big to ever climb with ease — was a casualty of his crash on Saint-Roche.

The race plodded onwards, a dismal parade barely visible in the veil of the storm.

In the forty kilometres before the next hill that pointed sharply upwards, racers abandoned by the dozens. The peloton had lost heart, riders gazing numbly at their hands or shading their eyes to try to see through the blinding snow as they slogged into the freezing headwind. 

Mycroft had lost feeling in his fingers again and shivers were threatening — it was the work of the frigid gale blowing into his face. He needed to work harder to stay warm! Mycroft upped the pace to a reckless speed, following the taillight of the lead motorcycle to stay on the road. He gave up the notion of racing — he would be content to survive this race. It was a nightmarish ten k before his feet began to ache and his palms throb and he realised that he was again able to feel his grip on his handlebars.

Greg rode up beside him and Mycroft fished out two of the gels he’d thawed under his jersey. He looked around for Mikel Vitola, but Greg shook his head. “Hypothermia.” He said. “I made him go back to Hugo.”

Mikel was gone — it was just the two of them. They downed the calories. Mycroft tried to drink from his bottle to wash it down, but the water was frozen.

As they approached the bottom of the Côte de Mont-le-Soie, three more racers abruptly abandoned. There were perhaps fifty — out of 174 starters — still in the race. 

The Côte de Mont-le-Soie was not as steep as Saint-Roche — it averaged 7.9 percent — but it was almost twice as long. There were some diehard fans on the side of the hill, huddled in coats and hats, some jumping up and down for warmth. Several wore ski goggles that had collected a frosting of snow as they waited for the race to arrive. Mycroft wished he had ski goggles.

He followed the tyre tracks of the lead moto up the hill, keeping his seat as long as he could. When he stood, he angled his bike diagonally across the road — he was still leading the peloton, no one was in his way — and in this manner, riding an echelon, managed to pedal to the top. A glance backwards told him that at least half the riders were pushing their bikes up the slope. 

For the rest of the race, there would be hills roughly every ten k. Eight more mountains to climb between himself and the finish line. 

“One at a time.” Mycroft told himself. “One at a time.”

In the nine k before reaching the next hill, the Côte de Wanne, they caught the breakaway. Or at least, they caught up with two riders from the breakaway — Mycroft had no idea if any of the others were still up the road. 

The Magnussen brother that had been in the break tucked in behind Greg. The other, a Lotto rider, drifted backwards to his team car and climbed in.

It was too soon to catch the break — in a typical race, bringing them back with 80 k still to ride would inspire ambitious racers to attack the bunch, trying to form a new break. There was a good chance that a late break would survive to the end. 

But no one attempted it. They simply continued trudging forwards into the snowstorm.

Someone crashed. 

There were so few riders left, and with their bright red cheeks, blue lips, solid-coloured jackets over their jerseys, and a mantle of snow, Mycroft barely recognised any of them. He saw Sebastian Moran was still there for Sphere alongside one of the Magnussen brothers — probably the one that had been in the breakaway. Jonesy was there, fresh off his win at Amstel Gold, and Christophe Allam, his blue Banque Francais kit completely obscured by a fluoro orange windbreaker. Mycroft couldn’t make out anyone else…

But Greg was still by his side. That was more comforting than Mycroft could express — solid, dependable, brilliant Greg. With Greg at his side, Mycroft could ride in the snow forever. 

They shared water from a bottle warmed inside Greg’s bibs. He leaned close. “How are you feeling?” He asked softly. 

“I’m good.” Mycroft told him, endowing his voice with a scrap of enthusiasm he didn’t feel. “Worlds was worse than this.” That wasn’t strictly true. The cyclocross World Championships had been miserably wet and cold and Mycroft had ended up almost hypothermic. But it had only lasted an hour. Today they’d already been riding for almost four hours and there was still 70 kilometres to go. Mycroft attempted to stretch his numb cheeks into a convincing smirk.

“You remember what I said on the bus?” Greg asked. 

He’d said to attack on the Côte des Forges.

Mycroft thought about it. Liége-Bastogne-Liége ended with fourteen relatively flat kilometres through the industrial outskirts of Liége, but before that they had to climb the Côte de la Roche-aux-Faucons. At thirteen hundred metres and Averaging 11 percent, it was often used to launch a solo breakaway, a mad dash to the finish line.

Greg was suggesting that Mycroft attack on the penultimate climb, the Côte des Forges ten kilometres before Côte de la Roche-aux-Faucon. It had similar characteristics — nothing steeper than a difficult but do-able 13 percent, a bit more than a kilometre long… but it added ten k to the mad dash. 

He’d messed up the timing of the finish on Wednesday, that still galled Mycroft a little. (Rupert had told him to get over it, fifth was fantastic for a twenty-one-year old in his first road season. But Mycroft still felt he should have done better.) He didn’t want to fail again. But he would need to try his luck on an uphill — if he waited to attack on the flat, his chances sunk to almost nil.

“I do.” Mycroft told Greg. He nodded once affirming the decision. 

He still had to climb five steep hills before they reached the Côte des Forges. And there could be five racers still ahead of them — they’d only caught two from the break, the others were unaccounted for. Was Tom Wallays up the road strategizing about how to win the race? Or had he and the others climbed off their bikes?

Mycroft put his head down and worked… it seemed darker all of a sudden, dim, dusky. Mycroft looked up, looked around, trying to work out what had changed… 

The snow had stopped. Or not stopped entirely but lightened significantly. Instead of a curtain of white surrounding him, he could see the racers around him, the moto ahead. Everything was coated with snow — the trees and houses, the grass and the pavement, the cars, the motorcycle driver, Greg’s helmet and the little bill of his cap that protruded an inch out the front of it, everything. It was a crepuscular frosted wonderland.

The wind howled between the houses, along the road into their faces. It was bitterer, more biting without the cushion of thick flakes damping its sting. Mycroft’s gloves, damp from the snow, began to freeze around his aching fingers. He flexed them — they were clumsy and stiff.

But the race took on a new life. More of the remaining racers joined the two Amstel riders at the front. Jonesy was the first, cheerfully taking a pull. Moran surprised Mycroft by pulling through as well. Allam, sat in, huddled grimly in his windbreaker, but another Banque Francais racer took a turn in service of his leader. 

Greg had his head next to the Magnussen twin’s — they were talking. Absurdly, Mycroft felt a jolt of possessive envy. He turned his face back into the wind and focussed on the pain of the frigid gale hitting his skin.

He worried over tactics like he’d worry a loose tooth, prodding it this way and that. Were there still riders from the break up the road? How could Mycroft find out? How could he catch them?

And how was he going to escape from the peloton? Mycroft was reasonably certain that he could out-climb a bigger racer like Moran… but Allam? Magnussen? They were specialists. And Jonesy was the sort that never gave up, dragging himself back to the front group over and over like a genial zombie. Was Mycroft going to be able to do this?

(He _had_ to cross the line in front of Magnussen!)

Mycroft had been leading up the hills thus far… he decided that he would continue to take the lead and when he was ready, he’d _launch_! Attacking from the front was more difficult, but he would quickly be out of sight on the circuitous course — around a corner, over the crest of a hill. Only his tyre tracks would give him away

Tyre tracks! When he was on the front of the bunch, the only tracks on the snowy road were from the motos and car ahead of the riders. There wasn’t anything that might have come from bike wheels — even partially filled in, Mycroft would be able to see them!

There were no riders ahead of them! The other members of the break must have climbed off their bikes!

Mycroft felt lighter with the realisation. For the first time in the race, he felt almost… hopeful.

Winning _this_ race — in a bloody blizzard — _he could do it_! Mummy wouldn’t be able to help being impressed!

The thought sent a rill of guilt through his body — but he dismissed it. Mycroft needed all the help he could get today and if desiring Mummy’s approval helped him turn the pedals faster, he would allow himself to chase her good opinion. He would deal with the disappointment later.

Moran continued to work with the small group on the front, pulling through, helping to keep the pace steady… but as they approached the Côte de la Redoute — the steep uphill climb _before_ the Côte des Forges, Mycroft’s target — Moran began to _ride_. Instead of taking a turn and pulling off the front, he stayed and upped the pace significantly. 

He was setting up Magnussen! Greg shot Mycroft a feral grin as they wove around a clot of surprised racers and tagged onto the Sphere riders. 

Moran was a fierce racer. He attacked la Redoute full on, shooting up the snow-covered incline at a furious speed. The fans on the side of the road screamed, shouting encouragement and approval, one waving a Belgian flag at Greg as they sped by.

Abruptly, Magnussen jumped. Moran slowed, spent, and Mycroft had to dodge around him to chase. He caught up to Magnussen and they left the other racers behind. Staying with Magnussen was an effort, but it didn’t put Mycroft anywhere near his limit. He wondered it Sphere rider was holding back.

Mycroft didn’t attempt to pass the other racer, simply sat on his wheel as they crested the hill. Even though this descent was much more gradual than the incline, he took the lead, unwilling to trust Magnussen in the snow. 

On the way down, Christophe Allum joined them. On the flat, the three riders looked at each other. Mycroft could see that Allum wouldn’t work with them — they’d dropped him once, he wasn’t going to burn energy helping them win. It wasn’t long before Greg and Moran, Jonesy and a Lotto racer joined them. 

Moran looked appraisingly at Greg. Greg nodded and together they began trying to increase their lead over the peloton behind.

It was a fast twelve k to the Côte des Forges. At the very bottom, Mycroft shot past Greg and rode hard. Over the previous climbs he’d found an awkward balance that allowed him to stand without losing traction on his rear wheel — leaning back to keep his weight over the saddle whilst he stood up to push the pedals — and he used it now to propel himself uphill at speed. 

He heard a shout and the shifting of gears. Magnussen would be chasing, and Allum too. Mycroft focussed only on climbing as fast as he possibly could. It was painful, the cold air jagged in his lungs, and his numb fingers clumsy on the bars. He was afraid they would slip off and he would crash ignominiously.

But somehow, _somehow_ he reached the crest in the lead! Mycroft didn’t look back — he needed all his attention and skill for this more technical descent. It would be so easy to lose control! 

His heart in his throat, he crouched down low over his handlebars, hugging the top tube, letting himself pick up speed as he coasted downhill, leaning through the corners as if the road were completely clear and dry. He could not afford to slow down.

It wasn’t until Mycroft reached the bottom that he risked a glance under his arm. There was nothing behind him but his own tyre tracks on the white.

With a deep breath, Mycroft began to lay down as much power as he could, chasing the motorcycle’s taillight through the dim, white world. He dug another gel from under his jersey, ripped it open with his teeth and squeezed it into his mouth. He picked up his bidon, wanting a swallow of water to wash it down, but it was frozen solid. 

A film of energy gel still coated his mouth when Mycroft felt the carbohydrate prop up his energy. They were so fast, so effective. Whoever had invented the pudding-like gels was a genius.

Mycroft caught up to and passed a motorcycle — and understood that it was going back to lead the chase behind him. He must have at least thirty seconds!

Or perhaps, with such poor visibility in the flat, monochromatic dusk, they sent the moto back for a smaller gap. Mycroft didn’t know.

He leaned his forearms on the tops of his handlebars and draped his frozen hands over the cycle computer in the centre, mimicking the posture on a time trial bike. He churned his legs around and around, until he got on top of a gear, then he shifted to one harder — faster — and worked to get on top of the new gear. 

A sudden gust of wind shoved him sideways! Somehow Mycroft stayed upright, wrestling his bike against the wind. As abruptly as it had hit him, it stopped. The trees had petered out and the wind was howling through the gaps between houses. Another diagonal crosswind hit him, but he was ready and held his line.

The entire world was encased in white in the increasing dimness and absolutely silent — but for the eerie whistling of the wind — the red taillight of the moto leading him on and on and on…

“Good, Mycroft! Keep going.”

It was Hugo! A glance under his arm showed Mycroft that the Amstel follow car had been sent up to support him!

Immediately Mycroft sat up and raised his hand. The Amstel car pulled up next to him, matching his speed, and the window rolled down halfway.

“How much time?” Mycroft demanded. “How much time do I have?”

“Thirty-seven seconds. You’re doing great!”

Mycroft nodded. Thirty-seven was good! “Water?” He asked. 

“Yeah — hold on.” A moment later, Hugo was holding out a bidon. Mycroft tossed his frozen bottle and took the fresh one. He drank a third of it at once then settled it into the bottle cage on his down tube.

“Thanks.”

“Greg’s got your back — he’s disrupting the chase.” Hugo meant that Greg was rotating through at the front, but when he got there, he slowed forcing the other racers to ride around him and pick up speed again. The need to accelerate over and over hurt the legs more than a steady pace. It was an effective tactic — as long as the other racers allowed him to pull through.

Mycroft nodded and curled back into the TT position, putting his head down.

“Are you OK?” Hugo asked, a note of uncertainty in his voice.

Not even bothering to look over, Mycroft scoffed. “I’m fine.” He said flatly. 

“Good. Good, I know you can do this.” Hugo declared. He rolled up the window and the car dropped back behind him again. Mycroft emptied his mind of everything but the smooth, rapid circling of his legs. _Mummy would be so proud of him_!

Côte de la Roche-aux-Faucon loomed.

With a deep breath, Mycroft sat up, taking hold of his handlebars firmly. This was the last hill — after this there were 14 mostly flat kilometres to the finish line. 

He could increase his lead on this hill. Or he could lose it entirely.

Fans littered the hillside — more here than on any of the previous climbs — waiting for him. A wall of noise penetrated the snowy silence, the collective cries of the cycling enthusiasts who had braved the storm to watch him ride up the final ascent. One man ran beside Mycroft’s bike in a flurry of snow, shouting loudly — until he slipped and fell away. Mycroft was relieved. He downshifted and spun his pedals faster, shooting up the incline. 

He couldn’t see the top — when had it gotten so dark?

Mycroft spun his legs as long as he could, but eventually he was forced to stand. His back wheel immediately lost traction, rotating in place, shooting snow behind him. Mycroft stretched his body out, until his bum floated over the saddle and his arms were extended fully to grasp the bars. He thanked the course designer (and Lady Luck) that this hill didn’t have one of the impossibly steep gradients — 13 percent was no cakewalk, but he was not confident he could have held this position up a 20 percent grade.

Abruptly he crested, the valley opening up before him, and he tipped downwards. This was the steepest descent — it would have been enjoyable but for the wet snow rapidly developing a frozen crust that covered the road. Almost immediately, Mycroft was travelling too fast for any sense of where the road was going. He kept his eyes glued to the moto — he had to follow it and trust the motorcycle driver to stay on course.

The road wended into Liége. The neat homes had been left behind for the grim utility of an industrial landscape. Warehouses and factories loomed casting their shadows over the road. The wind whistled between them like a river rushing around rocks, foaming angrily.

Mycroft spared a thought of thanks for the wind. The cross-headwind was brutal, hurting his legs, making him feel turgid and slow. But it would be hindering the chase just the same. If he stayed strong, the wind would be his ally.

But it was hard! So hard to be strong. Mycroft’s legs burned with lactic acid and he felt the warning grip of a cramp in his left calf. He gritted his teeth and leaned lower over his bars, trying to get just a bit more aero — a cramp would spell the end of his hopes.

Navigating a roundabout, Mycroft entered the last eight kilometres. Eight! Still so far! A motorcycle sped by and for a moment Mycroft felt the panic that his lead had narrowed far enough that they were pulling the vehicles out of the gap between them. But this moto had a second rider holding a whiteboard. On the board in dark, bold figures, was printed “54 seconds.”

Relief made him sag — his lead had gone out to almost a minute! Hugo still crooned intermittently in his ear, encouraging his progress. He was still doing well!

The excitement bounded through his body, a feral animal, wild and uncontrollable. It ignited his hopes and they burned bright and hot. The burn in his legs did not diminish, but he felt it less. His pace was smooth, his body still as he arrowed towards the finish line.

Another corner and another, the snow beneath his wheels treacherous — but Mycroft didn’t slip. He felt transcendent, felt above the danger! Nothing could touch him!

The sides of the roads were crowded with warmly clad fans, arms waving, signs and flags rippling. Their excitement fed his own and Mycroft spun his legs faster and faster. There was still panic low in his gut, still the knowledge that he could be caught and passed so easily! But there was also the joy, the absolute _glee_ at the increasing probability of victory!

The red kite loomed ahead, the inflatable arch over the road still crowned with half a foot of snow. Only 1000 more metres! Mycroft wanted to cry with relief, with triumph.

Instead he put his head down for a last push. Despite Hugo’s assurances, Mycroft was not convinced the peloton wouldn’t sweep past him at any second.

500 metres… 400… 300… Mycroft looked back — there was only the Amstel car and the fans. 200 metres… 100…

Mycroft Holmes sat up, his fists punching the air as he rode across the finish line. Tears streamed down his cheeks, freezing on his skin.

He coasted to a stop and Anthea was there, throwing a blanket around his shoulders. She hugged him and Mycroft realised he was shaking — but with joy or cold, he wasn’t sure. 

Alun took his bike, patting him on the back and congratulating him. Hugo appeared and wrapped his arms around him. “You won!” He exclaimed. “Mycroft! You won!”

 _He had won_! Mycroft had won Liége-Bastogne–Liége!

The joy was overwhelming! It was a thousand times sweeter than winning Paris-Nice — that had been almost accidental, this was something he’d worked towards every day for a decade! 

He’d won a bloody _monument_ of cycling! Mycroft had won the race that had helped defined Roman Garin, the race his grandfather had considered his greatest accomplishment. _Mycroft had won_! 

The success sat in his chest, a bubble of swelling pride.

Hugo led him into a tent out of the wind where it was marginally warmer. It wasn’t heated — the April snowstorm unexpected. Anthea had thermal tights and a clean, dry long-sleeved jersey for him to wear on the podium.

Mycroft looked at them dumbly, the giddy happiness blocking out all other thought. His mind turgidly recognised the tasks he needed to perform.

He couldn’t unclip his helmet. Anthea pulled the gloves from his hands, they were crisp and hard, the fabric frozen. His hands were red, and Mycroft could not feel his fingers — they weren’t numb, they simply didn’t register. He tried to flex them and they sluggishly obeyed, curling into awkward fists.

Anthea took one of his hands between hers and chafed his fingers, trying to stimulate the blood flow to warm them.

Magnussen was brought into the tent — he’d come in second — looking wet and miserable, starting to shiver. It was Augustus, the pricklier of the twins.

Greg followed. He grinned, making a beeline for Mycroft. “You did it!” He crowed as he enveloped Mycroft in a hug. “I knew you’d do it!”

“You?” Mycroft asked.

“Third.” Greg told him. He’d won the sprint from the drastically reduced peleton. “Stealing your glory, Slim.”

Mycroft punched his arm. “Prat.” He said, returning Greg’s grin. 

His cheeks ached with returning warmth.

\---

The podium ceremony was a blur of dizzy triumph. Mummy had stood on this same podium with her father…

Afterwards, Anthea took the flowers and trophy that Mycroft could barely hold in his deadened fingers. It took a moment for it to register in Mycroft’s giddy brain that she looked worried. Why did she look worried?

Greg wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “Back to the bus, Slim.” He said. “You need a hot shower.”

Only then did Mycroft realise that he was shivering.

He _was_ cold. It was in his bones now. Despite the warm hat, thermal tights, and wool Amstel jacket over the layers below, the wind made him feel naked to the frigid air.

Greg walked him into the bus and directly back to the little cabin with the shower and changing closet. He pushed Mycroft in and shut the door behind them. “Can you get some of those layers off?” He asked, his back to Mycroft as he started the shower.

“Of course.” Mycroft said. But the zip on the jacket was more difficult to manoeuvre than it should be. 

Greg clucked under his breath and began to help, peeling the jacket from his shoulders. “You’re frozen, aren’t you.”

“My fuh-ingers aren’t cuh-cooperating.”

Greg unzipped the jersey and helped Mycroft shuck it. The base layer underneath was still damp. When it was peeled from his skin, Mycroft shuddered. His torso was pale and pink and marred by chill blains.

Mycroft toed off the trainers he’d worn for the podium and shoved at the tights. Greg helped peel them off his legs, leaving only his knickers, the shoulder straps hanging down around his hips.

“I should go.” Greg mumbled. “You’ll be alright?”

Mycroft flexed his hands and tried to control his shivers long enough to speak. “I’m fine.” He said, the words juddering.

Greg scoffed. “Turn around.” He commanded. 

Without thinking of the outcome, Mycroft complied, allowing Greg to strip the knickers down, revealing his bare arse. It was embarrassing not to be able to do for himself. He supposed he was a little bit hypothermic. 

Hands on his upper arms, Greg guided him into the shower. 

For a second, Mycroft didn’t feel the water. Then pain began to bloom in his legs and arms as they began to wake. He hid his tears under the flow of water. 

For long minutes, Mycroft let the hot water cascade over him, warming him. His mind slowly sharpened, and his hands and feet tingled painfully. Eventually, his fingers closed around the bar of soap and he lathered, cleaning himself desultorily. 

He turned the water off and Greg wrapped a towel around him and began patting him dry. Greg was still there…

“Thank you…” Mycroft wasn’t certain how it happened, but his arms pulled Greg close and he tucked his face against the other man’s neck. His scent! The tang of sweat and wool and _Greg_!

Mycroft was crushed against the wall, Greg pressed hard to his body and they kissed, Greg’s mouth hot and demanding and it felt so perfect! Mycroft dug his fingers — he could feel most of them again — into layers of spandex, feeling the ribs and spine underneath. Muscles rippled as Greg undulated his hips.

Hot mouths, hot breaths, tongues and teeth and lips and _Greg_! Mycroft had missed this so much!

A noise. 

Not the groan from Greg’s throat or Mycroft’s panting gasps, something foreign. Mechanical.

Greg blinked and pulled back. He caressed Mycroft’s cheek — he was smiling gently, but his eyebrows were drawing down, the line between them appearing, deepening.

“I have to… I’m waiting for a call.” He explained. “I’m sorry.”

Mycroft nodded. “It’s fine.” He said.

Greg was already digging the phone from his pocket. He barely glanced at the screen before pressing it to his ear. “Yes?’

Mycroft wrapped the towel around his body. It’s big — he wound it around his chest, just under his arms, and it hung past his knees. He’d always enjoyed the decadence of the Amstel bath sheets.

“Yeah? Yeah… that’s great! Yeah! Thanks… thank you.” Greg ends the call and looks up. “I have to go.” He said, looking dazed. “I’m… I’m a father. I have to go see my boy.”

All the air was sucked out of Mycroft’s lungs, but he nodded. “Congratulations.” He heard himself say. “Go.”

Greg squeezed Mycroft’s hand and thanks him, but it’s clear that his mind is already far away from Liége, far away from the Amstel bus. Far away. 

And then he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! The Tour de France ended in grand style and I just watched a ripping World Championship road race! I'm so happy that bike racing is happening during the global pandemic! The teams are being so careful with their rider bubbles and thus far, no positive tests!
> 
> So... a lot to unpack. Mycroft has won a monument! He's followed in his famous grandfather's footsteps and won the race over which Mummy feels the most nostalgic. Can Mycroft still make her proud? Should he even bother trying? 
> 
> And then Greg... Mycroft in a physically weakened and mentally triumphant state, falling into his arms — only for Greg to rush to Fleur's side.
> 
> What will happen next?
> 
> I hadn't originally intended the snowstorm — there's been a lot of weather — but in researching Liége-Bastogne-Liége, I read about the year that a blizzard started just as the racers rolled out. Only twenty-one racers finished the race that year! And the winner couldn't feel several of his fingers for weeks afterwards. 
> 
> I hope you're all still enjoying this fic! If you leave a comment, it will quite literally make my day. Thank you!


	6. CHELMSFORD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft takes a short break from racing.

|| Greg Lestrade || 16:25  
** _Meet Raphael Maxime Lestrade — 3.5 kg, 52cm, and just gorgeous. [pic]_ **

** _Fleur had some complications and is still in hospital. I brought Rafé home today and until she’s recovered, I’m a single parent. It’s TERRIFYING. He’s so tiny and fragile and LOUD. Thank God my sister is here to show me what not to do. I’ve moved into Fleur’s flat temporarily. She has the nursery set up, all his things. It makes more sense than moving everything to my place and then back again when she’s released._ **

** _Sorry I’ve been out of touch, Slim. I’ve been thinking about you a lot. It’s been… I don’t even know how to describe it. Overwhelming. Exhausting. Definitely exhausting. Everything is complicated right now. I wish we’d had time to talk before all this madness. I want to see you… I just don’t know when I’ll have a break. But we need to talk, yes?_ **

** _I have to go — Rafé’s awake and he’s hungry._ **

Mycroft read the texts again. He’d received them three days after Liège-Bastogne-Liège. Three days of restless ambivalence. Three days trying to decide what it was that he wanted.

 _What had he been thinking_ , kissing Greg Lestrade?! Over the last several months, Mycroft had achieved a hard-won equilibrium. He had moved beyond the pain and loss that the breakup with Greg had engendered and was on his way to becoming someone who could _not_ be hurt. Mycroft never wanted to feel that wretched again. He _would not_!

...but... but… kissing Greg had felt so good! It had felt _right_. God, he’d missed it — the closeness, the care… the thrill…

Clearly Mycroft was the most idiotic person who ever drew breath.

|| The Iceman || 19:56  
** _Congratulations on the birth of your son — he is indeed a fine fellow. It is only natural that you are very busy — text me when your schedule allows, if you like. In the meantime, please accept my best wishes for Fleur’s speedy recovery._ **

Mycroft had rewritten the text a dozen times. The photo of Raphael Lestrade showed a red-faced infant with crossed eyes and a corona of fine brown hair, tightly swaddled in a blue blanket. But for the eyes, it was indistinguishable from all other infants to whom Mycroft had been subjected: unformed, amorphous, a wet lump of clay awaiting moulding. He could detect no resemblance to his handsome father — or his handsome mother for that matter... Mycroft assumed that came later.

The crossed eyes were... comical. Happily, the child would grow out of that fairly quickly.

He’d gone back and forth about mentioning Fleur. Mycroft harboured only negative feelings for the woman, but he did not wish her physical harm. That Greg was moving into her flat… that had flung Mycroft into a swamp of complicated emotions.

After careful consideration, Mycroft had to admit that probability suggested that the introduction of the child would facilitate Greg’s reunification with Fleur. Greg was already the child’s carer, when she returned home, he would care for her as well. It was only natural that feelings of dependence and responsibility would grow and blossom into a renewed relationship. 

That Mycroft had carelessly exposed himself to further heartache was unacceptable. He had been suffering physically from the cold and was grateful for Greg’s camaraderie during the race and his care after. But it had got out of hand. He would have to be doubly on his guard from now on.

\---

After Liège-Bastogne-Liège, Mycroft’s training schedule called for two weeks of rest before ramping back up for the Tour de France tune-up races. But ‘rest’ was a bit of a misnomer. Everything for which he had not previously had time was stacked into these two weeks. 

He had meetings with his agent and his lawyer — meetings that Elizabeth Smallwood had set up with three companies offering him lucrative sponsorship opportunities. Mycroft had a stack of paperwork regarding his trust fund to read and discuss with his attorney and ultimately to sign. He had an appointment to be fit for a custom 3D printed aero helmet, a second appointment to map his feet for 3D printed cycling shoes, and a third for the custom 3D printed one-piece aero handlebars and stem for his time trialling bike. He had some press obligations — as Phoebe was quick to remind him — a phone interview and a photo shoot for an article in Cycling News, glad-handing VIPs and speaking to children in front of the cameras.

The more personal items on Mycroft’s to-do list included dinner plans with Lulu and Thijs Vanthourenhout, lunch with Rupert Yates, finding and purchasing a carpet for his front room, and scheduling time with Sherlock.

That had proved more difficult than he’d anticipated. His brother had twice appeared in Mycroft’s flat at odd hours — waking Mycroft from sleep which did _not_ make him cheerful. Sherlock appeared to have something on his mind, but thus far had refused to share. John Watson let slip that he was having issues at the school in Antwerp. Mycroft supposed that was inevitable.

He missed the relationship he’d had with Sherlock when they were rooming together at races and living together at least half the year. When Mycroft had been part of his own family.

But he had little time to dwell on it. ‘Rest’ did not mean that Mycroft wasn’t riding. He had two to four hours every day on the bike — rides without the usual intensity. (Dull!) Jens Schilinger had detailed notes on power output and heartrate that he wanted Mycroft to follow. It was more complicated than his diet, which was a feat.

“You look knackered.” Rupert said as he kissed Mycroft on the cheek in greeting. He’d already ordered a big bottle of fizzy water and a cheese platter. Mycroft looked at the cheeses longingly.

“I am a bit.” Mycroft admitted. He sighed as he sank into the chair — Rupert had chosen a small bistro whose layout gave the tables the illusion of privacy. They were almost alone together. “This place is lovely.”

“I hope you don’t mind, I ordered for us already. I gave the chef your requirements — 100 grams of carbohydrate, 80 grams of protein. No wheat, no sugar, no dairy, no more than ten grams of olive oil…”

“Stop… please.” Mycroft protested. He was all too familiar with his nutritional plan. Amstel’s nutritionists had him reporting the amounts of kcals he burned each day and had him measuring out exact amounts of nutrients based on those numbers. It was exhausting to think about. Mycroft preferred to simply do it without dwelling on it.

Rupert shrugged, his smile warm. He was a very good-looking man. “It’s working — Liège-Bastogne-Liège?! I wish I’d been there.”

“You don’t.” Mycroft told him. “It was singularly unpleasant. Winning aside, it was the worst six hours I’ve ever spent on a bike.”

“It looked epic on the telly.”

“That is one word for it.” Mycroft preferred ‘hellish.’ “Don’t let me stop you.” He gestured at the cheese board.

“Oh, it’s for both of us — it’s vegan cheese.” Rupert said, looking proud of himself.

Mycroft frowned. “What is in vegan ‘cheese?’” He asked dubiously.

“Nuts.” Rupert said, cutting into one of the little wedges. “Cashews, almonds, macadamias — I looked it up: they’re soaked and then ground, mixed with a bit of water and lemon juice and other spices and then cultured. Et voila.”

“That sounds appalling.”

Rupert laughed. He held up the sliver of ‘cheese’ he’d cut. “The whole wedge has ten grams of protein and four grams of fat.” He held it out towards Mycroft. “Come on, I did all sorts of research. You have to try it.”

“Mm.” Mycroft knew he sounded cranky. He felt a bit cranky about the ‘cheese.’ He had made it his practice to only eat foods that he enjoyed — as his diet was so proscribed, he refused to waste calories on anything mediocre.

But Rupert looked very confident about the stuff. He was holding the slice right in front of Mycroft’s lips now. Grudgingly, he opened his mouth and allowed Rupert to feed it to him.

The first surprise was the sharpness of the flavour — and the cheesiness of the texture. “This is dairy.” He said, chewing guiltily. Mycroft hoped it wouldn’t make him ill. It had been years since he’d had dairy.

“It’s not.” Rupert assured him. “Cashews. It’s good, innit.”

Mycroft savoured the sliver of ‘cheese.’ It _was_ good. He smiled — and rolled his eyes when Rupert laughed at him.

“You should trust me.” He said, handing the cheese knife to Mycroft.

“How did you find this?” Mycroft asked, cutting a sliver off a different wedge.

“Me mate. His girlfriend is vegan — I was visiting last month, and this was on offer. Thought of you right away.” Rupert took the knife to carve a piece for himself. “Had to find a place in Antwerp that served it.”

That was… flattering. Rupert had thought about him whilst socialising with others — had gone out of his way to find a restaurant so Mycroft could have a treat. And it _was_ a treat! It was more — much more — than he had expected from Rupert.

Abruptly Mycroft felt shy. “Thank you.” He said to the table. “It’s very kind of you.”

Rupert’s fingertips touched Mycroft’s hand, ghosting over his skin. “You deserve good things, Mycroft.”

Mycroft had no idea what to say to that. “Do I?” He muttered.

The fingers folded over his palm. “Absolutely.” Rupert told him. “You deserve the best.”

The server interrupted with their entrees and Mycroft reclaimed his hand. But he’d liked it, Rupert’s hand holding his. 

\---

The lunch with Rupert left Mycroft in a very good mood.

A good mood that lasted until 9:34 the next morning. He was going riding with John Watson — Sherlock was supposed to be with them, but he hadn’t shown up. Watson texted him and ten minutes later they had received no reply.

“That’s strange.” Mycroft noted. His brother never stopped texting.

“Not really.” Watson said with a resigned sigh. “Since I got back from Italy the last time, he hasn’t been around much.” 

Mycroft frowned. “Sherlock hasn’t been out riding with you?”

“Not for a week at least. After those Sphere cunts started talking to him, he’s been… erratic.” Watson said glumly.

“Sphere?” Alarm bells were ringing loudly in Mycroft’s brain. “Why is Sphere talking to Sherlock?”

“You don’t know? Jesus.” John scoffed. “I can’t believe he didn’t tell you — it’s all he’s been talking about for weeks.”

“Tell me.” The alarm bells were screaming now.

“Jim Moriarty’s been in town. He was with Sherlock a couple times when we’ve met up to ride. Have to say, I don’t really like that Moriarty bloke. I don’t know what Sherlock sees in him. He’s a big star, but he’s not the nicest bloke. Sherlock seemed… impressed.” John sighed. “Guess I can’t blame him — Sphere offered him a place on their Junior Development Team, which is huge.”

“Sphere what?!” Mycroft felt the alarm escalating into panic. Jim Moriarty popping up in Sherlock’s life… it was about _him_ , about Mycroft, he was sure of it. Because he’d declined Sphere’s contract and taken the win from Moriarty at Paris-Nice. Oh God, what had Moran said? _“Jimmy’s not happy that you turned us down. He has his heart set on HAVING YOU.”_

 _And now he was going after Sherlock_!

Mycroft shuddered, his skin crawling. “I have to talk to him.” He didn’t want his brother anywhere _near_ Jim Moriarty. There was a malevolence about the man that Mycroft wanted to give a wide berth. 

He dug his phone from his jersey pocket and opened the messaging app. He had texted with Sherlock as recently as Monday, the day after Liège-Bastogne-Liège.

|| Sherlock || 11:14  
** _6 hours and 31 minutes! I could have stopped and made a snowman and still beaten all of you to the finish line!_ **

|| MH || 11:25  
** _I invite you to attempt it._ **

|| Sherlock || 11:28  
** _I almost fell asleep watching that travesty. If I hadn’t had a pig to dissect I might have fallen into a coma of boredom._ **

|| MH || 11:30  
** _I expect you could use the sleep._ **

|| Sherlock || 11:31  
** _Sleep is boring._ ** 

Nothing since, but that was not unusual. 

Mycroft dialled Sherlock’s phone. It went directly to voice mail. He dialled again. 

“Sherlock, for God’s sake, answer your phone!”

“Hey, Mycroft…” John Watson chided. “I talked to him yesterday. He’s fine.”

“You saw him?” Mycroft demanded. “You talked to him in person!?”

“No, on the phone...”

“He rang? My brother never talks if he can text!”

“Yeah, but...”

Mycroft didn’t waste his breath, simply flashed a dark look that closed Watson’s mouth. He tapped out a quick text — a terse _RING ME! IMPORTANT_ — and turned his bike in the direction of Sherlock’s school.

Watson followed him, which was irritating... until it was convenient for Mycroft to leave his bicycle with the man whilst he charged into the school. He needed to nip this in the bud _now_.

The headmaster of the Lycée Français International d'Anvers was a bright and dedicated woman named Aveline Grégoire. In their first meeting, Mycroft had apprised Madam Grégoire of his brother’s intelligence and intransigence and had been pleased that she’d been willing to accommodate him. He’d had several subsequent meetings with her where he’d been surprised and pleased by her restraint and patience. She seemed to like Sherlock despite his sulky mien and poor manners and wanted to encourage his scholarly interests.

Striding into her office today in his form-fitting spandex tights and jersey, cycling cleats clacking on the polished floor, Mycroft radiated urgency. Madam Grégoire took one look and invited him into her office. 

“Apologies for not ringing first, Madam Grégoire. I would have made an appointment, but I need to speak with my brother urgently.”

Madam Grégoire’s mouth was tight. “I’m a bit confused, Mr. Holmes. Your brother isn’t here.”

“Not… where is he, Madam Grégoire?” He stamped down his impatience.

“You don’t know?”

“I would not be asking, I assure you.” Mycroft said through gritted teeth.

Pursing her lips, Madam Grégoire opened a drawer of her desk and removed an envelope. She pulled a paper from it and held it out to him. Mycroft recognised the thick, creamy paper of his personal stationary. 

The letter explained that Sherlock was withdrawing from Lycée Français immediately to attend a school closer to home where he could spend more time with his family. It was written in Mycroft’s hand and bore his signature. Clipped to it was a cheque from his chequebook for a not insignificant amount, covering the remainder of Sherlock’s tuition. Both bore his signature.

“I did not write this.” Mycroft told her. Abruptly he knew why Sherlock had come to his flat whilst he was sleeping. He sagged, feeling exhausted. “I fear my brother has deceived us both.”

Madam Grégoire looked stricken. “But my assistant rang — he spoke to you, confirmed the information.”

Mycroft pointed at the contact information on the letter. “This is not my phone number.”

She was pale as a sheet. “I apologise, Mr. Holmes… I should have… good God, we must find him! We must phone the police.”

“No.” Mycroft told her. “I think I know where he’s gone.” Or at least with whom Sherlock had gone. Mycroft would be able to track him faster on his own. He gave her back the letter — he had all the information from it he needed. “Good day.”

Before she could protest, Mycroft strode from her office.

\---

By half noon, Mycroft was on a train to Brussels. There he’d catch the high-speed Eurostar to London, take the Underground from St. Pancras to Stratford station to catch the Norwich to Chelmsford, a small city in Essex. Mycroft had scoured the Sphere website and discovered that Sphere’s Junior training program and school was three kilometres outside Chelmsford proper at Baddow Park House, a rambling Victorian manor.

He hoped he’d find Sherlock there.

The trip would take more than seven hours. Mycroft spent the half hour on the train to Brussels on the phone with Elizabeth Smallwood explaining that he would be out of the country for the next few days, apologising and asking if she could reschedule the meetings with potential sponsors. His agent was not happy but agreed that a family emergency took precedence. She did not bring up what she well knew — that Mycroft was estranged from his family.

He could almost hear her thoughts — why was _Mycroft_ rushing all the way to England for his brother when his parents were only an hour away from Chelmsford in Kent. He was grateful that she did not ask.

The call to his attorney was easier — none of it hinged on the schedule (and good opinion) of third parties.

Mycroft had more than an hour layover in Brussels before boarding the Eurostar. 

First, he rang Sherlock again and listened as he was shuffled directly to voice mail. Then he dialled another number.

“Lucinda, my dear, I fear I am unable to come for dinner this evening. Something urgent has come up and I am on my way to London now.” He was standing outside of Brussels Midi station, in a quiet stretch of alley.

“Urgent? I hope it’s nothing bad.”

“It’s Sherlock.” For a moment Mycroft tried to form a convincing half-truth… he gave up with a frustrated huff — he trusted Lucinda Vanthourenhout. “He forged an exit letter and left the Lycée Français. He ran away from our parents once already, I daren’t trust them to handle this effectively.”

“Forged a letter?” Lulu asked. “Are you sure?”

“It purports to be from me, and I am quite sure that _I_ did not write the letter.” Mycroft told her. “No, he wanted to leave and knew that I’d object.” He sighed. “He’s not answering his phone.”

Oh Mycroft, you must be terribly worried.”

“Worried enough to go after him, yes.”

“How long as he been gone?” She asked. He could hear the anxiety in her voice. 

“Watson was on the phone with him yesterday, but he hasn’t been to the school for three days.” Mycroft said. “His room is empty, he left nothing behind.” Nothing but dirty sheets and a greasy layer of filth — evidence of Sherlock’s neglect, nothing else. The boy was too intelligent to leave a clue to his destination or intent.

“All his gear? His bikes?” She asked. “Could he do that without help?”

“I believe he had help.”

“You don’t think… has he been kidnapped?”

Mycroft sighed. “I haven’t ruled it out entirely, but I don’t believe so. He went willingly with the assistance of someone that he trusts.”

“Not John Watson?” She said. “He wouldn’t do that. Not without telling you.”

“Not without good reason.” Mycroft amended. He was under no illusions about Watson’s allegiance. “But no, he’s the one that alerted me — Sherlock told him that he’d been invited to join Sphere’s junior development program.” The words were sour in his mouth.

Lucinda took that in. “That doesn’t sound bad. Sphere… they don’t take just anyone. Why wouldn’t he say anything? Most kids would be over the moon to be selected.” 

“I don’t know.” Mycroft said. But he had a few ideas. None that he liked very much.

\---

The Eurostar was comfortable enough — the seats were large and well-padded, and it wasn’t overly full. Still Mycroft walked through the cars to find a quiet seat away from other passengers. Whilst looking, he dialled his brother’s phone, _willing_ Sherlock to pick up.

“Mycroft?”

Mycroft startled — and looked up to see Rupert Yates. He was sitting by the window and had a laptop, iPhone and notebook spread out on the table in front of him. The commentator plucked the earbuds from his ears. “You’re going to London?” His eyes flicked to Mycroft’s rucksack and back to his face, reflecting a modicum of hurt.

His question was clear: why hadn’t Mycroft mentioned it at their lunch? He knew Rupert lived in London — it was one of the things that had kept him from kissing the man properly after they left the restaurant. If Rupert lived closer to Antwerp, Mycroft might have indulged… but he did not want to jump into a long-distance romance without serious thought about the logistics.

And he’d kissed Greg less than a week before. Rupert deserved better than a man with as much baggage as Mycroft was carrying.

Rupert laughed, a self-deprecating titter, breaking the tension. “Sorry. It’s a lovely surprise to see you. Sit?” He gestured at the seats across the table from him.

With a small smile, Mycroft sat. “It’s not a trip that I planned.” He explained. “I discovered this morning that my brother has left school… unexpectedly.”

“Oh! You think he’s gone home?”

Mycroft laughed out loud. “Lord, no. Not willingly.”

Rupert acknowledged that with a smirk. “To London then?”

“Chelmsford, actually. I understand he’s been offered a place on Sphere’s junior development squad.”

“Well that’s a serious opportunity — wait, isn’t your brother only sixteen?” Rupert asked. He frowned. “Sphere’s program is for seventeen- and eighteen-year olds.”

“Fifteen.” Mycroft corrected. “From what I gather, Jim Moriarty extended the invitation personally.”

Rupert’s expression hardened. “That raises a number of questions.” He said slowly, clearly thinking through the possible ramifications.

“Indeed. I thought I should ask those questions in person.”

Rupert rubbed his jaw, his fingertips rasping over stubble. He looked at Mycroft speculatively for a moment. “I’ve been to Baddow Park.” He said. “Did a piece on the development program a few years ago — meet the stars of tomorrow, that sort of thing.” The commentator tapped his lips thoughtfully. “I know the program director — raced with him a bit when we were coming up. He’s a mate. I can give him a bell if you like, find out if Sherlock’s there.”

Mycroft found himself sitting bolt upright. “Could you?” He asked. “Sherlock hasn’t been answering his phone.” And he was increasingly worried that his brother wasn’t simply being stubborn, but _could not_ answer his phone.

“Yeah, no problem. Hold on.” Rupert picked up his iPhone and scrolled through his contacts. He met Mycroft’s eyes as he put the phone to his ear. They waited. Mycroft could hear the faint ringing.

“Gazzer? Hi, it’s Rupert Yates…”

Mycroft listened with growing impatience to the ritual small talk — old jokes brought out and laughed over, an accounting of who had seen friends recently, three exclamations of “Oi! Wanker!” — until Rupert finally brought up Sherlock.

“So yeah. I’m calling for a reason, Gaz… mate of mine, his brother is starting on the development squad... yeah, with you... and he hasn’t been able to get in touch with him…. Yeah? Reception’s spotty out there?... must drive you mad… I feel your pain, I’m about to go into the chunnel, I’ll be cut off for the duration…” Rupert laughed.

Mycroft forcibly suppressed his frustrated sigh.

“Yeah, so I wanted to check in and see if the kid made it there. Put his mind at ease… Holmes, Sherlock Holmes…” Rupert raised his eyebrows at Mycroft while he listened for a moment. “He is?! That’s great, Gaz! Thanks…yeah, tell him to call his brother… right… Ta!”

Sagging back in his chair, Mycroft forced himself to breathe. Sherlock was at Baddow Park. He would see his brother tonight.

“If you’d like, I can take you out there.”

The words surprised Mycroft out of his reverie. “Oh… that’s very kind, but I couldn’t impose. I’m taking the train to Chelmsford as soon as we arrive in London.”

“I don’t want to hold you up… I do need to stop by me flat.” Rupert said, his eyes shrewd. “But I have a car I rarely get to drive, and I’d jump at the chance for a ramble in the country.” He said. “And I might be able to smooth the way with Gaz…” He looked around the compartment briefly, then returned his gaze to Mycroft. “Everything’s probably fine. Gazzer’s a good bloke. But if anything is amiss… or if Moriarty… well… you could probably use some backup.”

Mycroft examined his friend, saw how sincere and serious he was. “I need to get there tonight.” His voice sounded plaintive.

“I can do that.” Rupert promised.

\---

Rupert’s car was a lovingly cared for Jaguar from the early aughts. It was supremely comfortable — Mycroft might even have fallen asleep if he weren’t so anxious. 

Stopping at Rupert’s flat had not taken long — and turned out to be fortuitous. As Mycroft prowled restlessly from lounge to kitchen his stomach growled loudly.

“Ho!” Rupert exclaimed, returning from the bedroom. “Was lunch that long ago?”

In his rush to get to the train station, Mycroft had completely forgotten about lunch. He had barely remembered to toss clean underwear in his rucksack. “Oh… yes. I neglected to bring a snack.” Now that he was thinking about it, Mycroft _was_ hungry. But he could not be bothered about it. He was afraid Rupert would insist they stop for food.

He must have betrayed his thoughts to Rupert. “Let’s see what I have.” He opened a large pantry cupboard and rifled the contents. “Trail mix… not much else that fits in your diet. It’s the healthy kind at least — no chocolate.” He grinned, tossing the bag to Mycroft. “And some protein bars — read the label, see if they’ll work.”

“It’s perfect. I’m in your debt.” It was far from perfect, but he was agreeably surprised that the ingredients of both fit within his nutritional plan. 

“I usually have fruit in, but I’ve been out of town a while...” Rupert paused. “I could cook something…”

“No! This is more than adequate. Thank you.”

“Great. Let’s get going.”

As they drove, sharing out trail mix, Mycroft focussed on staying calm and cool. He did not want to betray himself to Moriarty, let the man see his growing wariness and alarm. It was very possible that Moriarty would not be there, but Mycroft hoped that he was. He wanted to make sure the man understood his brother was off-limits.

Baddow Park House was a sprawling and idiosyncratic manor house far enough outside Chelmsford to give the impression that it was firmly in the country. Baddow Park with its tall trees and open fields supported that perception. 

It was dark by the time they drove through the gates, lit only by the waning moon low in the sky. The approach to the manor curved through the trees — Mycroft noted at least one smaller road leading deeper into the wooded grove — until suddenly the entire sprawling mansion was before them. Mycroft suppressed a smile at Rupert’s little gasp. The park designer had done his job well one hundred and fifty years or so ago, creating the dramatic reveal of the big house.

The door was opened by a young man whose thin arms and bulging thighs showed him to be a cyclist. “I’m here to see Sherlock Holmes.” Mycroft told him.

“Who?”

“The new boy.” Rupert supplied. “Young. Arrived in the last day or so.”

“Oh. Right.” All curiosity left the young man’s eyes. “In here.”

They followed him into a large receiving hall with a grand staircase and doors to either side. It had once been a gracious display of affluence. Now there were scuffs on the hardwood floor and racing bikes stacked along one wall three deep. “In there.” The young cyclist said diffidently, waving at one of the doors. He started up the stairs without looking back.

Mycroft glanced at Rupert, registered his bemusement — would have shared it if circumstances were different — and opened the door.

“Sherlock!” He was slouched on a couch one leg coiled. As Mycroft said his name, Sherlock kicked out and struck Jim Moriarty in the thigh. Moriarty caught his foot, laughing. At the sound of Mycroft’s voice, they stopped their roughhousing and stared at him.

“What are _you_ doing here?!” Sherlock cried, scrambling to his feet.

“I might ask the same, brother mine.”

“Ah, Mycroft! This is a surprise.” Jim Moriarty crowed. “Welcome to Baddow Park. As you can see, Sherlock has joined my little development team.”

“Yes... Moriarty... hello.” Mycroft stopped himself from sputtering, just.

“Surely we’re beyond ‘Moriarty.” He said coming forward and shaking Mycroft’s hand. “Call me ’Jim,’ please. And Rupert Yates.” Moriarty moved to take the commentator’s hand. “Isn’t this interesting.”

Mycroft forced himself to sound agreeable. “Jim... might I have a word with my brother… alone?”

Sherlock began to protest, but Moriarty cut him off smoothly. “Mm, I’m sorry, but, it says on Sherlock’s paperwork that you are not allowed to see him at all, let alone one-on-one.”

“Does it now?” The fury sprung fully formed into his chest — Mycroft kept it tightly contained. Mummy must have been over the moon when Sphere offered Sherlock a place on the development squad. She’d never been happy with her younger son living so close to her disgraced elder. He had no doubt she’d signed Sherlock over without a thought other than how to keep Mycroft from him.

Rupert, with his unerring social intelligence, stepped in. “Hey, c’mon, Jimmy — they’re brothers, give them a minute, yeah? We can wait in the hall, just outside the door.”

“Is _he_ your boyfriend now?” Sherlock brayed loudly. He narrowed his eyes, studying Mycroft. “You haven’t given up on Lestrade yet. Does this one know that?” He gestured dismissively at Rupert who had abruptly become tense at his side.

Moriarty’s laugh was sheer delight — and not entirely sane. “My, my, Mycroft. You _do_ get around.”

“Perhaps we can concentrate on the matter at hand.” Mycroft said through gritted teeth. “I came a long way to speak to my brother.”

“You should have called. Saved yourself the trouble.”

“I did call.” Mycroft said. “Repeatedly.”

“And Sherlock didn’t answer? Do you think he was trying to tell you something?” Moriarty’s voice was increasingly facetious. Sherlock sniggered.

“I only need a few minutes.” Mycroft kept his tone smooth. “And then we’ll be on our way.” _With_ Sherlock!

Moriarty sighed. “I suppose I could bend the rules… I’d hate to for him to lose that close, brotherly bond. If you agree, of course, Sherlock.”

Sherlock huffed unhappily, clearly ready to object — but a silent communication passed between Moriarty and the boy and he relaxed. Mycroft noted it with alarm. “Let’s get it over with.” Sherlock sighed.

Moriarty made a show of looking at his watch. “Just a few minutes...” He walked to the door. “Coming?” He asked Rupert. 

“Erm, yeah.” Rupert said, shaking off the rigid fascination with which he’d been watching the proceedings. He followed Moriarty out of the room.

“I’m right here if you need anything.” Moriarty called. He left the door ajar.

Mycroft wasted no time, dropping the impassive mask and striding towards his brother. “What are you doing here?” He hissed. “Why did you leave Antwerp?! Why didn’t you tell me Moriarty was sniffing around?!”

“Because I knew you’d be unreasonable.” Sherlock replied calmly, flopping back down on the couch.

“It’s not unreasonable to want to keep you safe. Moriarty is dangerous.” Mycroft kept his voice pitched so only Sherlock could hear him.

“Dangerous?!” Sherlock scoffed.

“Keep your voice down!” Mycroft shook his head. “This isn’t even about you — he’s angry with _me_. He’s trying to use you to get at me.”

That got Sherlock’s attention. He sat up straight, his eyebrows furrowed low over his eyes. “Ridiculous.” He scoffed.

“He wants me on Sphere — he’s made that plain. I think it’s the only thing that stopped him retaliating after I took the win at Paris-Nice. He’s trying to use you as leverage to get at me.”

“Or... he recognises _my_ talent. You’re not the only one who can race!”

“Think about it, Sherlock! You’re _years_ younger than any of the other boys on the development squad. You _are_ talented, but it’s too soon to bring you here! And Moriarty! Showing up in Antwerp. Offering you the place personally. He has an agenda!”

“How is that about you!? Why is everything _always_ about you?!”

“This is about both of us — I don’t want you harmed.”

Sherlock laughed aloud. “Jim isn’t going to _harm me_ — what, do you actually think he’s going to hit me? No — you think he’s _seduced_ me! You think he wants to _interfere_ with me!”

“I fear he already has.”

“You’re an idiot. He hasn’t put a hand on me.”

Mycroft touched the centre of his brother’s forehead. “He’s touched you _here_.” He said, feeling ineffably sad. “You are entirely seduced. Good Lord… I thought you were smarter than this.”

Sherlock sneered and batted Mycroft’s hand away. “You can’t stand it that it’s not _you_ — that I want to spend time with someone other than _you_.”

“Yes, clearly you’re correct considering the tantrum I threw when you befriended John Watson.” Mycroft didn’t even try to temper the sarcasm.

“Leave John out of this!” Sherlock cried. 

“ _You’ve_ left John out of it, it seems. He was as surprised as I to learn that you’d left Antwerp. Although he was more hurt whilst I was worried.”

“John was hurt…?” Sherlock looked stricken. 

“Yes, of course he was, little brother. He cares about you. _I_ care about you.” Mycroft said. “That’s why I don’t want you near Moriarty.”

At the mention of Moriarty, Sherlock’s expression grew mulish again. “You’re wrong about Jim. He’s not going to hurt me — I’ve learned so much from him already!”

“I shudder to think.” Mycroft sighed. “Please Sherlock, let’s get your things. We can stay over in London tonight, and tomorrow... Madam Grégoire will take you back at the Lycée Français…”

“I’m not going back there!”

“Don’t be stupid, Sherlock!”

“That’s right. I’m stupid. Stupid Sherlock. I’m not like you — you’re the smartest, Mycroft. You win!”

“Sherlock…”

“You already left me!” Sherlock shouted. “You knew what would happen, but you did it with Lestrade anyway! I hate you!” The amount of vitriol shocked Mycroft. “I hate you!”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft tried not to show how hurt he was.

“I’m not leaving.” Sherlock declared. “If you try and force me, I’ll call Mummy. She’ll send the police. You know she will.”

Mycroft blanched. “I’m trying to help you.”

“I don’t need your help! I don’t want it.” Sherlock snapped. “Leave me alone.”

“Your few minutes are up, I think.” Mycroft whirled around — Moriarty stood in the open door. 

“Not yet.” Mycroft gritted.

“Oh yes. You’ve seen that Sherlock is perfectly well. No need to worry, big brother.” Moriarty sang. “Bye-bye now.”

“Sherlock—” Mycroft attempted to appeal to his brother.

“I’ll call Mummy.” Sherlock said firmly. “Go away.”

Rupert took his arm — Mycroft hadn’t seen him come into the room. “Come on. Time to go.”

“But—"

“We’ll talk in the car.” Rupert said. “Take care of yourself, Sherlock. Jim.” He nodded goodbye at Moriarty who grinned, amused at Mycroft’s discomfort, Sherlock’s truculence and Rupert’s interference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today Liége-Bastogne-Liége and stage two of the Giro di Italia are being raced — both are usually held in the spring, and not on the same day, but coronavirus! It’s so great that racing is even possible this year. If any of you North Americans have Flo, Fubo and/or NBC Sports, check out a replay.
> 
> I always had a love/hate relationship with rest weeks. On one hand, it’s nice to have more time, to lay around and watch TV, whatever. On the other, it feels crappy to let that fitness go, to get slower knowing you’ll have to build it back up again. But if you do it right, you get stronger. And overtraining leeches the strength and speed from your body.
> 
> ANYWAY! Sherlock! Still feeling betrayed by Mycroft goes off with Moriarty! What is Moriarty’s plan for the brothers? And Greg is overwhelmed by parenthood — as much as he says he wants to, he hasn’t spoken with Mycroft since they kissed. Oh and Rupert! Such a good bloke.
> 
> Thank you all for your comments! It’s so nice to know I’m not throwing this into a void. You’re the best.


	7. LONDON

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft realises he has to play a long game with Moriarty for Sherlock.

John Watson had a girlfriend.

Mycroft had knocked on his teammate’s door — Sherlock kept in regular touch with Watson, thus Mycroft spoke to him often. He wasn’t entirely surprised to find a young woman there — Watson was compulsive in his pursuit of female companionship. But he’d either not wanted more than a night or two of pleasure, or the ladies had not been interested in more with him.

One look told Mycroft that this one was here to stay.

“Mycroft, come in. Meet Marie — Marie this is Mycroft… well, you know who he is.”

“Oui.” She said. “Of course, I know of Mycroft Holmes. It is a pleasure.” She extended a slim hand and Mycroft felt the callouses on her palm. She was a cyclist as well — and a dab hand with a gun if Mycroft was feeling the hardened skin correctly. She was French or Belgian (French, almost definitely) and older than Watson by several years. Smarter too.

_“Le plaisir est entièrement pour moi, mademoiselle.”_

Marie laughed. “Your French is much better than Jean’s.”

“Good Lord, I should hope so.” Mycroft chuckled. Watson’s French had been learned entirely in the peloton and consisted solely of declarative nouns and verbs, with a colourful dash of cursing.

“I’m standing right here.” Watson complained.

 _“Mon pauvre chérie. Vous sentez-vous exclu?”_ Marie asked, kissing Watson on the cheek. 

“I understood ‘chérie.’” Watson grumbled. “Not much else.”

She laughed at his grumpy tone, sliding an arm around his shoulders and pulling him to her as she repeated the phrase in English. She was small like John, her slight form folding into his embrace prettily.

Mollified, Watson cleared his throat. “So, erm, Mycroft… what brings you by?”

Marie turned a penetrating gaze on him, and Mycroft thought he wouldn’t want her as an enemy. The oddness of that hit him — how he _knew_ that she could be ruthless. Why he was so certain Mycroft could not say, but there was _something_ about her that struck a discordant note. Outwardly she appeared to be an outgoing, good-looking, rather average young athlete… but there was more to her…

Until he worked it out, Mycroft would not speak of anything of importance in front of her. 

“Nothing that can’t wait.” He told Watson. “I did not intend to interrupt.”

“No, no.” Marie exclaimed. “I am on my way out the door. You must stay.”

“Oh no…” Mycroft began.

“Sérieusement.” She said, impulsively grasping his hand. “If we both leave, Jean will think we are lovers, going off together.” She peered at him through seductive eyelashes, leaning back into Watson’s arms. 

Mycroft chuckled. “Lovely as you are, I’m afraid _my_ attentions will never make Watson jealous.”

“Yeah.” Watson agreed. “No.”

“No? More is the pity.” She snuggled close to Watson and kissed him briefly. “Au revoir, chérie.”

“I’ll see you tonight?” He asked.

“Oui, of course.” She kissed him again before slipping from his arms and from the flat.

“Tea?” Watson asked after he’d locked the door after her. 

“That would be lovely.” Mycroft lied. He knew what sort of tea Watson drank. 

“So what has brought you by?” Watson asked as he filled the kettle. “The usual?”

“Indeed. How is he?”

Watson shrugged. “Fine… bored… you know how Sherlock is.”

Mycroft knew. He itched to ask for specifics, but Watson had made it clear that he wasn’t going to give away any confidences. “I’m not your spy, Mycroft.” He’d said truculently when Mycroft had first come to him.

He was sorely tempted to mirror Watson’s mobile, read all his texts with Sherlock, listen in on phone calls… it would not be difficult to accomplish…

“Moriarty’s not there — hasn’t been back since you left.”

A weight lifted from Mycroft’s shoulders. “Moran too?”

“Didn’t say, but I assume so. Sherlock hasn’t mentioned him.”

“That’s good.” Mycroft muttered. It was a relief. The less Sherlock was exposed to that man’s influence the better. “Did he get the box I sent?”

“Erm…” He could see Watson weighing his words. “What was in it?”

Mycroft stopped himself from rolling his eyes — he needed John Watson. “A chemistry set.” It was more than a simple chemistry set, but Watson would not appreciate the differences.

“Oh, the science equipment? Yeah. Yes. He’s been using it… running experiments.” Watson smiled indulgently, his eyes far away.

The kettle boiled, yanking Watson from his thoughts. He poured the hot water into mugs, over bags of PG Tips. Mycroft took the mug offered him and added a generous splash of milk to the vile brew. He sipped it politely.

“If you could mention ‘Scrabble’ to him, I would be obliged.” 

“Scrabble?” Watson asked. “The game?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“He’ll understand.” Mycroft assured him. “If you could avoid using my name… simply work it into normal conversation…”

“Normal conversation?” Watson protested. “I’d never text about Scrabble.”

“Yes.” Mycroft agreed. “That’s the point. You wouldn’t.”

Watson scoffed. “What is it? Some kind of code?”

“It is.” It was more of a hint, really, but Mycroft didn’t care to explain.

Watson peered at him over the rim of his mug. “I don’t like Moriarty much either. He can be a real twat. But do you really think he would hurt Sherlock?”

Mycroft set his tea on the bench. They’d discussed this at some length before. “I don’t think that’s his goal, but I fear he would not hesitate if he thought it would work to his advantage.” He told Watson. “The greater danger is that Sherlock will take his example to heart. My brother’s intelligence has isolated him from his peers. With a few notable exceptions.” He waved a hand at Watson. “And it has given him a sense of wounded superiority. 

“It would not be difficult for Moriarty to mould that superiority, that isolation, into his own image. My brother’s desire for approbation is too great — our mother made certain of that. Moriarty could warp him into something we would not recognise.”

“I don’t know it would be that easy.” Watson was quick to defend his friend. “Sherlock… you don’t give him enough credit. He sees through everyone — he’ll see through Moriarty.”

“I very much hope that you are correct.” Mycroft said. “But I fear that would make Moriarty even more dangerous. I simply want to give my brother options. If and when he needs us, he’ll have a way to reach out.”

“He can text me.” Watson said stoutly.

“We don’t know that his texts aren’t monitored.” Mycroft said. “It would not be difficult to alter them… or delete them entirely.”

“And you really think Moriarty would do that.” It wasn’t a question. Watson huffed softly and took a swallow from his mug. “Yeah, ok. I’ll do it. ‘Scrabble.’”

“Thank you.” Mycroft said. “That sets my mind at ease somewhat.”

Watson sighed. “Have you tried calling? Or texting?”

Mycroft had not. “It’s complicated…” _He blames me for being disowned._

“You could go see him.” Watson suggested. “I know it’s inconvenient…”

Mycroft closed his eyes. The memory of the debacle when he’d attempted to retrieve his brother was fresh. Freshly humiliating. “I have seen him.” He admitted softly. “I went the day we discovered he’d left Antwerp.”

“Oh!” Watson digested that information. “You bottled it, yeah?”

Mycroft attempted to keep his features calm and unemotional but knew that he failed. “I did.” He admitted.

He could still hear the vitriol in his brother’s voice as he shouted. _“I don’t need your help! I don’t want it! Leave me alone!”_

He could still feel Rupert tugging on his arm, trying to pull him from the room. He had not wanted to leave Sherlock like that… their conversation unfinished, their emotions raw and roiled…

But Rupert was insistent. He dragged Mycroft towards the door. 

“What is it?” Mycroft demanded. Then he saw Rupert’s face and abruptly was aware that something wasn’t right. “What happened.”

“He called the police.” Rupert panted. “Moriarty. Told them you were violating the order of protection.”

Mycroft turned to his brother. “Sherlock… come with me.” He entreated. 

Sherlock simply scoffed. But he watched Rupert herd Mycroft into the big hall with interest.

“Not to worry.” Mycroft said. The Chelmsford constabulary were unlikely to do more than caution him. “There’s no need to rush.”

“Hi-i.” Jim Moriarty was in the hall with an athletic man in warm-up trousers and trainers. Behind them lurked Moran — the South African was the only cyclist Mycroft had ever seen who looked imposing _off_ the bike.

“Oi, Gaz!” Rupert said surprised.

The man in the warm-up trousers grinned. “Roop! They said you were here…” He focussed on Mycroft. “You’re Mycroft Holmes!”

“Ah. Guilty.” Mycroft swept his gaze over the man, reading him without conscious intent. Gazzer, short for Gareth, was an unpartnered heterosexual of average intelligence who lived and breathed cycling. His vices included the local chippy and the betting parlour, but he indulged in neither to excess. He cared about the young cyclists that were his remit and worked hard to prepare them for the professional ranks — and not just physically. The inspirational slogans on the binder he held included: “No room for a big head in the pain cave,” “Suffer harder,” and “If you think you’re the best, you aren’t working hard enough.”

“It’s an honour, Mr. Holmes — I’m a huge fan.” Gazzer enthused. “You were brilliant at Liège! The Iceman — in a snowstorm! That was brilliant! Just brilliant! I told Mr. Moriarty he should recruit you for Sphere.”

“He did.” Moriarty affirmed. “Alas, we were unsuccessful… but I’m hoping we can change your mind. In the meantime, we have young Sherlock with us.” Sherlock huffed, reminding everyone that he was listening. 

“You’re brothers, right.” Gazzer grinned at Sherlock. “He’s a strong kid — kept up with the older boys today, no problem.”

Sherlock smirked.

“I have always found it difficult to drop him.” Mycroft said smoothly. “Please don’t hesitate to contact me if Sherlock needs anything.”

“Yeah, sorry Gaz, Jim…” Rupert tugged Mycroft towards the door. “We need to _go_!”

Mycroft saw the alarm in his face. “Why so urgent?” He asked in a voice meant only for Rupert — though he knew the others could hear. “The police are unlikely to do more than warn me off.”

“He told them you were threatening Sherlock.” Rupert husked. “He said you have a knife!” 

Mycroft swore causing Sherlock’s eyes to open wide in surprise. Mycroft rarely cursed.

“I might have embellished a bit.” Moriarty giggled.

“They _will_ arrest you. They’ll hold you.” Rupert said in Mycroft’s ear. “And when the rags get wind of it… and they will…”

Rupert was right, they had to leave. “Start the car.” Mycroft told his friend. “I’m right behind you.”

“Don’t tarry.” Rupert comanded and banged out the front door.

Mycroft didn’t waste words on Moriarty. Shoving past him, he embraced his brother. He felt Sherlock go rigid. “Don’t trust him. Question everything. _Pay attention_!” He whispered in Sherlock’s ear. “I’ll find a way to contact you…”

Moran pried them apart, his hands startlingly gentle on Mycroft’s shoulders. “Let him go, Skatjie.” He murmured.

Mycroft did as he was bid, searching his brother’s face — for just a microsecond, he saw Sherlock understood before the rebellious sneer twisted his features. Mycroft nodded. It would have to be enough.

Moran marched him to the front door. “Later, Skatjie.”

The pet name made Mycroft shudder — and elicited an incredulous snicker from Sherlock. Reluctantly, he allowed Moran to escort him outside. Before the South African closed the door, Mycroft heard Moriarty talking to Sherlock. “What did he say to you?!” He demanded.

Mycroft wanted to turn around, force his way back into the house, _make_ his brother see sense.

“Mycroft?” It was Rupert, calling to him from the car and revving the engine

As soon as Mycroft had climbed into the jaguar, Rupert wasted no time, speeding down the drive towards the gate. As they reached it, Mycroft heard sirens. Rupert swore aloud. He turned the car the opposite direction from the wailing, streaking away from the police, away from Chelmsford.

It was tense in the car. Mycroft desperately wanted to return to Baddow Park House, to his brother. He wanted to demand that Rupert turn around… beg him to go back…

But he said nothing. Mycroft closed his eyes against a growing ache in his head.

In between shifting gears, Rupert rubbed a soothing hand over this thigh. Mycroft was grateful that he didn’t speak.

Sherlock hated him. 

His brother still loved him, Mycroft knew that. But he hated him now too. He told himself that it was perfectly normal for a teenager to rebel against his parents — or much older brothers, as the case may be — to act out and seek his own way.

But it was _galling_ that he’d chosen Jim Moriarty. 

Couldn’t he see that Moriarty was using him?! Sherlock was exceptionally intelligent. Give him twenty seconds of study and he could deduce almost everything about a person. How did he not comprehend that he was a pawn in a bigger game?

Mycroft did not trust Moriarty. He was unprincipled and capricious with strong narcissistic tendencies. He would not be surprised to learn Moriarty was a sociopath. Other people existed only to serve his whims. 

Leaving Sherlock in his care was terribly worrisome.

But what could he do?! Mummy had handed Moriarty the tools to keep him from seeing his brother. With a sigh, Mycroft realised he’d have to contact Father and relay his concerns. His fears.

Perhaps through Anthea.

But what else? Mycroft’s brain felt turgid, his thoughts slow and shrouded in the relentless throbbing pain. His headache was a constant agony, bad enough that the idea of driving an iron spike through his eye into his brain had a definite appeal.

He tried to set the pain aside, to concentrate on the problem at hand — there _must_ be something! Steps he could take, strategies he could employ, _some way to make Sherlock understand_!

Around and around the question swirled: what could he do? _What could he do_?! But he could not _think_!

His intelligence might as well have leaked from his ears.

“I’m going to order a takeaway.” Rupert’s voice interrupted Mycroft’s spiralling thoughts. “I’m starving — you must be hungry too.”

They were in London. How long had they been driving? The glare of streetlamps and headlights hurt Mycroft’s aching eyes. “I’m fine.” He mumbled.

Rupert scoffed. “There’s a Thai place at the end of the road, by my flat. You can eat coconut milk, yes?” He was already scrolling through the menu on his mobile.

Mycroft took the phone from his hand. “Allow me.” He said. “You’re driving.” As perfect an end as a car accident would be to this horror of a day, Mycroft wanted to avoid it. He ordered the specials at the top of the menu — red and green curries, Pad Thai and steamed spring rolls. “You’re taking me to your flat?”

“Yeah. I thought it was the best course. Unless you want a hotel. Or Paddington… you’d have to wait for a train…”

“Your flat is fine. Good.” Mycroft told him, cursing the pain that made him dull and inarticulate. “You’re very kind.”

“It’s been a long day.” Rupert said, patting his knee again. His hand was pleasantly warm. Mycroft closed his eyes against the assaultive lights.

It seemed to take forever to navigate through the city but finally they parked the Jaguar in the garage Rupert let for purpose. It was a kilometre from his building. Mycroft slung the rucksack wearily onto his back for the walk. His headache pounded along with his footfalls, boom, boom, boom… He screwed his eyes closed but for an eyelash-blurred slit to keep him from stumbling or walking into the street.

They picked up the food.

The smells of the Thai restaurant enveloped him, and Mycroft was _ravenous_. The protein bars and trail mix he’d consumed not three hours before, seemed to have hollowed him out rather than filled him. 

As soon as Rupert unlocked the door to his flat, Mycroft was pulling the cartons from the sack and opening them. Chuckling, Rupert produced plates and spoons and led Mycroft to a small table in a window overlooking the back garden.

Mycroft ate like it was his job. He couldn’t remember ever being this hungry. He couldn’t remember anything tasting so wonderful.

He registered Rupert’s amusement and forced himself to slow down. “Apologies.” He murmured. “I missed lunch.”

“S’okay. Are you feeling better?”

He _was_ feeling better! The headache had receded to a weak throb. More importantly, his I.Q. had increased roughly fifty points since they’d sat down to eat. The problem of Sherlock living under Moriarty’s influence, though still worrisome in the extreme, no longer seemed unsurmountable. Mycroft began making a mental list of steps he could take… he needed to undertake some research… 

He felt almost giddy with relief.

“I am.” Mycroft told Rupert. “Thank you… for everything.” If he’d taken the train to Chelmsford, he had no doubt he’d be in lockup now.

“Of course.” Rupert said, standing and gathering the empty food cartons.

“Please, allow me!” Mycroft sprang up and took them from him. 

“Oh... erm, ta.” Rupert said, opening a cabinet to reveal the bin.

Mycroft tossed them in. When he straightened, Rupert was close, close enough that Mycroft could see the golden brown coronas around his pupils, diluting his green irises into a soft hazel. They were beautiful. 

Impulsively, Mycroft touched his jaw. Rupert’s stubble was rough under his fingertips, but his neck was smooth and warm. Mycroft sighed.

It felt as if it had been decades since he’d touched skin. He’d missed it! Oh! How he’d missed the yielding texture, the velvet heat… Mycroft leaned in and pressed a kiss to Rupert’s mouth.

“Blimey.” Rupert murmured. His hand skimmed along Mycroft’s ribs and he kissed Rupert’s lips again. They were soft and inviting.

Rupert’s hand roamed over Mycroft’s back, pulling him closer. Another hand landed on his hip, a firm anchor in a swirl of sensation. 

Mycroft felt a sweet desperation for _more_. He kissed Rupert harder, longer, pressing him against the bench and _taking_ … Rupert’s lips parted, and Mycroft tasted the wet heat of his mouth. 

A gasping breath, a low moan, Rupert’s arms around him. Mycroft pushed his hands up under Rupert’s jumper, feeling the rasp of hair and the firm, smooth expanse of skin. 

Rupert pulled away — Mycroft was caught between protest and mortification — and yanked his jumper and t-shirt over his head in one smooth motion, baring his upper body entirely.

“Oh!” Mycroft had the impression of dark fur covering pale plates of chest muscle, dwindling down into a soft trail over his navel, disappearing under his waistband — then strong arms tightened around him again and he drank kisses from Rupert’s willing mouth.

He tasted of Red Curry.

Mycroft wrapped his fingers around Rupert’s nape and thrust up into the coarse waves of hair. Rupert’s approving grunt spurred Mycroft to tug lightly. Rupert broke their kiss to pant against Mycroft’s cheek. He grabbed Mycroft’s hips and pulled him close against his body. Mycroft felt Rupert’s arousal pressing rudely alongside his own.

“Can I?” Rupert asked, his voice rough, lifting the hem of Mycroft’s shirt. 

“Yes.” He said and Rupert began unfastening the line of buttons. Mycroft tasted his neck — salt and the faintest whiff of spice. He ran his teeth over the column, down to the curve of his shoulder and bit the muscle there. He kissed the reddened flesh, rubbing his face against it.

Rupert pushed the shirt from his shoulders. For a brief second, embarrassment rushed in — Mycroft was so skinny, like a plucked bird — but as quickly as it had come, it receded disappearing into the ocean of sensation and sentiment.

Lifting his head, he found Rupert’s lips, and dove in.

He lost track of time. Tongues and fingers and breath and heat and rutting hips filled his awareness entirely. He hooked a leg around Rupert’s calf, clinging to his sturdy form. Rupert’s body was… perfect — he was lean, but didn’t have the gaunt, starved look of a professional cyclists. He carried more muscle on his upper body than any pro rider would — every ounce mattered at Mycroft’s level — and his thighs were pleasingly thick and hard. He had the cyclist’s tan, his olive skin darkening to nut brown halfway down his bicep, the line between pale and sun-kissed sharply delineated. Like the hair on his head, the hair on Rupert’s chest and under his arms was dark and thick. A downy softness on the small of his back promised more fur below.

“My bedroom is… mmm… in there.” Rupert murmured. “Might be more comfortable than the kitchen.” He searched out Mycroft’s eyes. “If that’s not too forward?”

Mycroft laughed — he could see from the nervous twitch of Rupert’s fingers and the anxious cant of his brows that the commentator wasn’t used to uncertainty. If he brought a man home, he didn’t have to ask if he wanted to get in his bed. Of course, he wouldn’t need to ask — Rupert was gorgeous, men would trip over themselves rushing into his bedroom.

“Take me to bed.” Mycroft said. Rupert grinned and kissed him again. Taking his hand, Rupert drew him down the hall.

Mycroft barely saw Rupert’s bedroom before he was tumbled onto the bed. He found Rupert’s flies by feel and yanked the buttons open.

“Erm… hey…” Rupert covered Mycroft’s hands with his own. “I should tell you… before this goes pear-shaped...”

Pear shaped? Mycroft’s mind raced. Was Rupert HIV positive? In a relationship with someone else? Did he have herpes? Erectile disfunction?

“I… erm… have a thing for fancy knickers.” Rupert said, his cheeks colouring. “Silk knickers. I like how they feel.” He parted the flies of his trousers and pushed them down his hips revealing expensive women’s pants, the scarlet silk stretched obscenely over his tumescence, the head of his cock poking out one of the leg openings. “I wouldn’t have worn them if I’d thought… if I thought we’d end up…” He trailed off.

Mycroft ran his fingertips over the red silk. They _did_ feel nice. “I don’t mind.” He said. He _didn’t_ mind. It was a harmless kink. And Rupert’s embarrassment was adorable. “Leave them on.” He whispered, nuzzling Rupert’s ear.

He felt the tension drain from the other man’s body. Rupert kicked his trousers off and slid his fingers inside Mycroft’s waistband. “May I?” He asked, tilting his head up for another kiss. 

“Mmmm, yes.” Rupert would not find anything surprising inside his jeans. Just navy boxer briefs and his hard prick. Unless he thought ginger body hair was remarkable…

Deft hands unfastened his jeans and palmed his cock through the navy cotton. Mycroft’s breath hitched — it felt so good to be touched like this!

Impatient, Mycroft shoved his pants and jeans down his legs and, gripping Rupert’s silk-clad buttocks, pulled him close. Oh God! Their cocks slid against each other through the delicate lingerie and the sensation was almost overwhelmingly good. The gasp and moan he heard was his own.

Warm palms roamed over his thighs, exploring Mycroft’s muscular flanks. With a happy noise, Rupert dove down the bed where his mouth joined his hands in their examinations. Lips and tongue lavished the tender skin of his inner thighs with worship. Teeth scraped his hip followed by kisses that travelled over his belly and down his thigh.

Despite this, Mycroft was not prepared for Rupert to nuzzle his bollocks and jumped at the feel of his hot breath. Rupert held his hips down and inhaled deeply, savouring the scent of Mycroft’s arousal. Then he licked the length of Mycroft’s prick, from testicles to tip.

Rupert was a dab hand at giving oral — practised and enthusiastic and clearly enjoying the act. He could take Mycroft’s cock almost to the root, his mouth stretching lewdly as he gazed up at Mycroft through his lashes. He took his time, bringing Mycroft to the brink, then pulling back to cover his thighs with kisses. 

As he edged Mycroft a second time, Mycroft found his fists in Rupert’s hair. He arched his back and panted cries of pleasure into the still air — before he realised how hard he was pulling. He let go, muttering an apology to the man between his legs.

“No, I like it.” Rupert said, stroking the length of Mycroft’s prick with his hand. “I like it when you hold on.” 

He returned to his ministrations and Mycroft stroked his shoulders tentatively. Then Rupert’s thumb stroked and pressed his perineum and Mycroft was again lost to the sensation.

The orgasm, when it came, slammed up from his core, from his balls, carrying him helplessly on a wave of pleasure. It was a primal state, all body, his brain shunted aside for the duration as it pulled him this way and that as inexorably as the moon pulls the tide. Mycroft floated, suspended in physical joy…

When his brain shunted online, he found himself laughing, delight bubbling up from his chest to fill the entire room. 

Rupert lay beside him, idly stroking his hair. He was smiling.

“Wow.” Mycroft said, and Rupert chuckled, pride swelling his chest. He was still painfully hard, his cock straining in the delicate, red knickers. His thigh was damp where he’d leaked arousal.

Mycroft reached down and trailed his fingers through the dampness, using it to stroke the rude head of his prick where it protruded from the silken confines of the scarlet pants.

Rupert moaned, his eyes falling shut. Abruptly he lifted himself up onto his elbows. “I should take these off.” He murmured, thumb hooking into the band of the knickers.

“No.” Mycroft told him. “Leave them on. I want to make you come in them.”

Rupert blinked and stuttered, his cheeks glowing pink and Mycroft knew he’d said exactly the right thing. He traced the thick line of Rupert’s cock through the fine fabric and Rupert dropped, gasping, to his back.

Mycroft put his hand inside the knickers and took hold of Rupert’s prick, he stroked it awkwardly twice, then pulled it carefully from the confines. With his other hand, he cradled Rupert’s bollocks, still trapped in the scarlet silk.

“Fuck!” Rupert groaned, his body rigid with pleasure. “Oh, fuck yes.”

It didn’t take long. Mycroft pulled on the imprisoned balls as he jacked Rupert’s cock, twisting his thumb over the tip on the upstroke. He pushed the tumescent organ against the silk stretched over Rupert’s hip and rubbed it on the soft cloth.

Mycroft nipped Rupert’s ear and whispered, “I want to bend you over in these knickers and fuck you, your cock trapped in red silk…”

Rupert juddered and gushed, the cry wrung from his lungs high-pitched and desperate. Mycroft ground his prick against the silk almost cruelly until it softened, and Rupert lay still. Mycroft tucked it tenderly back inside the knickers.

He cleaned his hand with tissues he found next to the bed and mopped the rest from Rupert’s hip. When he’d finished, Rupert rolled and embraced him, pulling Mycroft against his body, little spoon to Rupert’s big spoon, and tugged the duvet over them.

Exhausted, Mycroft slipped easily into sleep.

\---

He woke in a ray of sunshine, still on his side. Rupert sat next to him — Mycroft had the sense that Rupert had just released him from his embrace and pushed himself upright. He rolled onto his back.

Rupert stroked a lock of hair back from Mycroft’s face. “Hi.” He said.

“Hello.” Mycroft replied, his eyes drifted around the room, taking in the wardrobe and chair, the dark aqua walls and the weight bench tucked behind the door. There was a clot of cycling medals hanging all together from a single hook between flannel shirts and a small rack of ties.

“Any regrets?” Rupert asked.

Mycroft was happy to erase the touch of uncertainty from the other man’s expression with a smile. “No.” He said. “None.”

“Good.” Rupert kissed him. “Tea? Or Coffee?” He asked. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything in for breakfast.”

“Tea.” Mycroft told him. 

“Coming right up.” Rupert smiled, his eyes crinkling attractively, and swung his feet onto the floor. He stood and stretched, his sturdy body on display — he still wore the scarlet knickers. They looked disreputable this morning with come dried on the delicate fabric. As Rupert retreated to the loo, Mycroft decided his arse looked quite delicious encased in red silk. He’d said it for effect, but he rather thought he _would_ like to fuck Rupert whilst he wore them.

Mycroft laid back and took stock. The world was more orderly this morning. It was brighter and calm even. Sherlock was with Moriarty, that was true, but Mycroft had options. He wasn’t giving up — and he was determined not give in to Moriarty and Moran and Sphere.

That was the crux, Moriarty wanted him — on Sphere to start and then... well Mycroft did not intend to discover what else Moriarty wanted with him. The very idea made him shudder and cringe reflexively under the duvet.

Sherlock would be safe as long as Moriarty believed that he could use him to manipulate Mycroft. Teams and racers were not allowed to discuss transfers from one team to another until July. He had two months to plan before he received the inevitable offer from Sphere.

Two months to effect Sherlock’s removal from the lion’s den.

Two months in which Moriarty could teach Sherlock his sociopathic ways…

Even that didn’t worry Mycroft quite as much this morning. Once again, John Watson’s ability — his superpower, really — to appear bland and unassuming was a boon. Moriarty would not credit his brother’s attachment to Watson and thus should pay little attention to their friendship. But as long as Watson was in communication with Sherlock, Moriarty’s influence would be held in check.

He listened to Rupert banging around the kitchen and his stomach growled. It was time for breakfast. Mycroft was not going to make the mistake of skipping another meal. He found his pants on the floor, tangled in his trousers and pulled them on.

In the kitchen, he discovered his shirt draped over the back of a chair — Rupert’s t-shirt and jumper in a heap on the seat. He donned Rupert’s jumper, wanting a layer to offset the chill in the flat.

The man himself was wearing tartan pyjama trousers, a white vest that stretched enticingly over his torso, and an ochre dressing gown… a woman’s dressing gown made of rich satin. Mycroft smiled internally as he approached Rupert, enjoying the thought of the manly commentator at work hiding silk knickers under his khakis.

He kissed the man and slipped his hands into the pockets of the dressing gown, luxuriating in the feel of the satin sliding over his skin. Mycroft could understand the appeal. And it cost him nothing to indulge Rupert’s harmless and rather charming kink.

“I want to catch the 12:45 Eurostar.” Mycroft told Rupert. “To the continent. Can I take you to breakfast first?”

Rupert handed him a steaming mug of tea. Mycroft was pleased to smell a stolid English Breakfast blend, _not_ the burnt acidity of PG Tips.

“That’d be great.” Rupert said. “How are you this morning?”

“Better.” Mycroft told him, splashing milk into his tea. “I dislike that Sherlock is with Sphere… I don’t trust Jim Moriarty at all...”

“Yeah, I can’t believe he called the coppers on you. I really thought he was having a laugh at first.”

“Most assuredly, he was. His sense of humour is perverse.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Nor I. But all is not lost.” Mycroft assured him. “I have a number of ideas that I want to explore.”

“So…” Rupert said. His body language announced that he wanted to talk about their relationship. “You needed comfort last night. I was happy to give it… if that’s all it was… I’m OK with that.”

“And if it was more?” Mycroft asked.

Rupert’s smile was tentative. “I’m OK with that too.” He said. “Was it? More?”

“Yes.” Mycroft said. “I like you quite a lot. And I think you like me.”

The smile grew more hopeful. “Might do.” They smiled at each other and Mycroft felt inexplicably shy — ridiculous to feel shy in front of the man who’d blown him so recently.

“It shan’t be easy.” Mycroft said, dismissing the odd reticence. “We live in different cities — different countries.”

“Yeah.” Rupert agreed, his eyes dropping. “And we’re both busy — your schedule is especially challenging.”

“Indeed.” This was the second day in a row that Mycroft would miss his training ride, something unprecedented. He already had a number of emails from his nutritionists asking for details of his food consumption, from Anthea telling him he’d missed his massage and wondering where he was, from his coach wanting to know why he hadn’t uploaded his training file — and this was his rest week. Mycroft could not nip up to London for a few days holiday, could not have leisurely lie-ins or spontaneous dinners. His life was rigidly scheduled and disciplined.

Rupert shrugged. “We’ll see how it goes then?”

“If you’re amenable.” Mycroft said.

“I am.”

“Good.” Mycroft kissed him briefly. “Speaking of my schedule, it is past time to eat. Get dressed — there’s a whole food restaurant that Google says is a twelve-minute walk from here.”

\---

Eight hours later, Mycroft alighted the train in Antwerp. His first call was to Watson. He’d installed some extra software on the mobile he’d had Watson slip to his brother in January— nothing intrusive. He’d not, for example, given himself the ability to monitor the phone, or even to locate it via GPS. But he’d added several ordinary appearing apps that would allow them to communicate clandestinely. It had been an extra measure he’d taken in case Mummy found the phone. But they would hide their texts from Moriarty as well. 

He simply had to make Sherlock aware of the app’s capabilities. One was a game that asked the player to collect brightly coloured jewels. Another was a Sudoku app. The third was called ‘Words with Friends,’ and it allowed one to play scrabble against a remote partner. It also allowed the players to chat.

Planning what to say to Watson, Mycroft began walking home. Turning a corner, he abruptly found himself face to face with Greg Lestrade.

Watson and Moriarty and even Sherlock fell out of his head. He hadn’t seen Greg since they’d kissed on the bus in Liège. Somehow, he’d forgotten the man’s charisma. His hands itched to reach out, to touch him.

“My!” Greg exclaimed. He smiled with honest joy — but Mycroft plainly saw the rue in his tired eyes. He’d not texted Mycroft since he’d sent the photo of his child. Mycroft told himself that he had not expected him to. 

Was Greg back with Fleur already? The very idea hurt, made Mycroft feel hollow. 

“Hello, Greg.”

For an interminable three seconds, they stood there speechless. Then Greg shook himself and filled the dreadful silence. “This is my son.” He said, rocking the pram Mycroft had not even noticed Greg pushing. “This is Rafé.”

Mycroft stepped around and peered into the pram. The infant was snuggled under a green quilt. Wearing a navy hat, only his little face and one red fist were visible. He was less hideous than he’d been at birth and Mycroft could see Greg in the shape of his nose and lips. 

“He’s as handsome as his father.” Mycroft said. Immediately he regretted it.

Greg beamed and flushed. “He does kinda look like me, doesn’t he?” He said. 

“Indeed.” Mycroft said awkwardly. “I, erm, hope his mother has recovered.”

“What? Oh, Fleur. Yeah, she’s home now. Which means I’m back in my own flat.” Greg’s posture expressed both relief and exhaustion. He was not yet reunited with the mother of his child then.

“Still doing the heavy lifting with Rafé though… probably should have moved the nursery to my place.” The last Greg muttered under his breath — a stray thought meant only for himself. “Erm, how about you? How are you doing?”

“Oh…” For the first time since he’d laid eyes on Greg, Mycroft thought of Rupert. He’d kissed Mycroft goodbye in Paddington, careless of anyone who might see. “I’m well.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t texted.” Greg said. “I keep meaning to, but this guy’s been running me off my feet.” He gestured affectionately at the infant. “We should talk, My.” He looked at Mycroft intently.

“It’s fine.” Mycroft said awkwardly. He’d been telling himself it was absolutely fine for weeks. 

“My…” Greg touched his hand, yearning in his eyes.

“I’m seeing someone.” Mycroft blurted, putting his hands in his pockets. 

“Oh!” Greg’s eyebrows knit and his body seemed to pull in on itself, collapsing into fatigue. “You are?”

“Erm… early days, but…” 

“Well. Good.” Greg said, everything about him telling Mycroft he didn’t mean it. “I’m... I should have texted...” For several seconds Greg’s misery took over. “I should have...” He ran his hand through his hair, and dropped his eyes to his baby. “I’m, erm, happy for you.” He shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “You deserve to be happy, My.” He glanced up and Mycroft saw that _that_ was sincere. Greg wanted him to be happy. 

Mycroft opened his mouth to reply... but no words formed. There were too many roiling on the tip of his tongue.

“Erm, I should go.” Greg said hurriedly, avoiding Mycroft’s eyes. “Shouldn’t have Rafè out in the weather too long. Yeah. Great seeing you.”

Gulping air, Greg wheeled the pram around and walked quickly away. 

Mycroft watched him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya. New and changing relationships abound and Mycroft gets high on Thai food. He decides a bit of discrete cross-dressing is not a deal breaker. And that nothing is quite as hopeless after a full meal, good sex and a night’s sleep.
> 
> Meanwhile Greg is experiencing everything new parenthood has to offer. No one is really prepared for that — especially as he likely expected Fleur to do more of the heavy lifting.
> 
> Next time: more racing! Long distance relationships! And more lessons in teamwork.
> 
> Thank you all for your patience and kind comments. You make my day brighter.


	8. TOUR DE L'AIN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft wants to be on the team Amstel sends to the Tour de France.

May took Mycroft to Eastern France for the Tour de l’Ain, a three-day stage race for the climbers. It was the first race in which his job was to help his teammate Phillipe Robert attempt to win the overall, the general classification — as Mycroft would do if he made the Tour de France team.

Mycroft had helped Greg Lestrade win Strade Bianchi and Paris-Roubaix. And he’d helped Amstel’s star sprinter Henry Braun win stages of Paris-Nice and a one-day race named Scheldeprijs. But he’d not yet worked to help a teammate win a general classification and he was very much looking forward to it.

It was Mycroft’s ultimate goal to compete in the general classification of stage races and grand tours. There was much to learn from an experienced racer like Robert — and just as much to learn by working for him.

(Mycroft himself had won the overall at Paris-Nice, but that had been a fluke, an attack in the last stage that had capitalised on Sphere’s hidden weaknesses. Mycroft would never be given that much leash again.)

If he did well at the Tour — if he could support Robert to a high placing and perhaps even win the white jersey for best young rider — Mycroft thought he could leverage the performance into a chance to lead the team at one of the other, less famous, grand tours next year. He hoped for the Giro d’Italia, but he’d be happy with the Vuelta a’España.

The first of Tour de l’Ain’s three stages was a 140 kilometre romp through the torturously hilly French countryside — a course that favoured Greg Lestrade’s talents to a ‘T.’ The plan that Hugo Charpentier outlined on the team bus before the stage, was for Amstel to force the pace on the penultimate hills to wear down the competition and then to attack on the final climb and launch Greg to a classic victory.

It was an exciting day. For ninety k, most of Amstel sat in the bunch and relaxed whilst Toon Goossens took turns on the front with rolleurs from two other teams that also fancied their chances at the win. With 50 to go, the team converged on the front and when the road started climbing, Amstel began breaking legs. 

Toon Goossens was first in line. The big rolleur was not built for climbing, but he put in a heroic effort dragging the peloton 1,400 metres up a hill with a four percent grade at a brisk clip — brisk enough to make the weaker climbers struggle and groan. Goossens led down the descent then stayed on the front on the gently rolling roads that led to the next obstacle.

300 metres up the next hill, Goossens pulled off — dropped like a stone through the peloton and directly out the back — and Mikel Vitola took over.

Vitola was lighter than big Tug Goossens. The gradient was an uncomfortable eight percent average, and the pace he set was punishing. By the time they reached the top, the front group was reduced to roughly sixty racers, the other hundred strung out in clumps behind.

Most caught up on the descent and in the flatter terrain below — including Goossens who went directly to the pointy end to assist whilst he could — but legs were aching. When Vitola started up the last hill, riders dropped out sooner. 

Halfway up, Vitola pulled over allowing Raphael Goméz to take over the work. The Columbian climber raised the speed higher, setting up the attack.

Unfortunately, Greg Lestrade was suffering badly. Goossens and Vitola’s efforts hadn’t just dulled their competitor’s legs, but Amstel’s star as well. Mycroft could see from early on the ultimate climb that Greg wouldn’t have the legs. 

Fortunately, Greg knew it too — he took it upon himself to change the plan. 

Greg tapped John Watson, and the young rider’s eyes lit at the opportunity. With 600 metres left to climb, two puncheurs attacked — one from Primary Tutoring and one from Lotto. Mycroft shouted for Watson to go with them. The diminutive climber had an enviable uphill acceleration that took him directly to the escapees.

Goméz slowed — Amstel wouldn’t chase their own man. They waited until Sphere dispatched men to the front to try to catch the three marauders. Amstel slotted in neatly behind the chasers.

Before the crest, Augustus Magnussen attacked — he was leading Sphere at this race and was favoured to win by the bookies in London. Mycroft flew up behind him and got on his wheel. This created a conundrum for Magnussen — Mycroft would not work with him against Watson and would not help him gain time on Robert. Mycroft would sit on his wheel like an albatross. If Magnussen managed to pull them up to the three, Mycroft would have fresher legs and could attack the Sphere leader. He and John could tag-team the group, taking turns flying off the front, forcing the others to chase. Or one could sit on, saving their energy until they were close to the finish line, and come around and take the glory in the sprint — and the ten bonus seconds awarded to the winner.

It was mooted when Banque Francais riders dragged the favourites up to Mycroft and Magnussen. A Cinestar rider tried an attack, and Paxti Ondo covered it, the Basque attaching himself to the racer like a ball and chain. 

The peloton crested the hill thirty seconds behind Watson’s group. Banque Francais, Sphere and Giant were looking at each other, each unwilling to help the others win. The peloton had reached stalemate.

Watson only had to beat the other two riders to the finish line. If it had been Greg, Mycroft would have been confident in the win. As it was, he listened tensely to his race radio as Hugo talked to John, trying to coach him to the finish. 

As they road into the long, straight stretch leading to the line, Mycroft could see Watson’s dark jersey ahead. The three escapees had slowed almost to a standing stop, each daring the others to sprint first, each glancing back at the roaring peloton as they drew ever closer. The man who went first was least likely to win… but none of them would win if they waited too long!

“Go, John! Go!” Hugo shouted, but Watson bided his time, nerves steely. Mycroft was tense with anticipation, watching the three grow larger, nearer. Finally, the Lotto rider panicked and began to sprint. Immediately, Watson and the Primary Tutoring racers were on his wheel. At 150 metres to go, they both came around the Lotto man and sprinted hard…

Mycroft saw Watson fling his arms up in victory!

Hugo screamed his excitement and delight — Watson had done it! John Watson had won his first pro tour race at the tender age of twenty! The Amstel riders in the bunch cheered as they rolled over the finish line, not ten seconds later.

Watson was giggling madly when Mycroft found him — a mix of disbelief, utter glee and a profound sense of accomplishment peppered with a large measure of adrenaline. He surprised Mycroft by grabbing him around the neck and hugging him tightly. As Mycroft extricated himself, he sensed that Watson was close to tears. 

Mycroft was set free when Phoebe, Amstel’s press officer, took Watson in hand. As she shuttled him into the tent for interviews, Watson attempted to affect stoicism, but joy shone from his mobile features. Mycroft overheard him tell the press how he’d raced track from a young age. “I wasn’t complete rubbish at match sprints.”

Whilst Watson was so employed, Mycroft retreated to the Amstel bus to wash and change. He found his phone and discovered that he had received several texts from Rupert — who was in Italy commentating on a different race — with his customary hyperbole. Mycroft covering Magnussen’s attack was “devastating,” Watson’s win “heroic,” Amstel in general “controlled the race like a boss,” and the race entire was “ripping.”

|| Rupert Yates || 15:11  
** _You are by far the sexiest man in the peloton_.**

Mycroft scoffed aloud. 

|| Mycroft || 15:11  
** _That’s entirely subjective_.**

|| Rupert Yates || 15:12  
** _Someday you’ll learn how to take a compliment_.**  
** _I’ll give you lots of practice_.**

|| Mycroft || 15:13  
** _You’re going to give me a big head_.**

|| Rupert Yates || 15:12  
** _I want to give you a big something_.**

|| Mycroft || 15:12  
** _That would be inappropriate — and embarrassing — as I’m on the team bus with Phil and Mikel_.**

|| Rupert Yates || 15:13  
** _Yeah, I’m not willing you share you with Phil Robert — he’s a bit naff (and he looked like shite today). Vitola, though, I wouldn’t mind watching if you wanted to get a leg over that_.**

|| Mycroft || 15:14  
** _I would be happy to edify you, but I fear it would negatively affect team relations_ **

|| Rupert Yates || 15:14  
** _The other boys would be jealous of Mikel? Fine, invite Phil. I’ll block that part of the screen with my hand._.**

|| Mycroft || 15:15  
** _I wish you were here. Not on the bus. In a hotel with a big bed_.**

They’d only managed to see each other once during May. Rupert had stopped over in Brussels on his way back to London from Paris. Mycroft had ridden there from Antwerp and spent the night with him in a lovely, old hotel. The sex had been torrid. 

** _Not big enough for Mikel_.** 

|| Rupert Yates || 15:15  
** _Forget Mikel — oh God, tell me you aren’t rooming with him_.**

|| Mycroft || 15:15  
** _I’m sharing with Phil_.**

|| Rupert Yates || 15:16  
** _Ha! That works in my favour_.**  
** _Seriously though, bet you a fiver he’s cranky as hell tonight_.**

|| Mycroft || 15:16  
** _Why?_ **

|| Rupert Yates || 15:17  
** _Didn’t look like he was going well today_.**  
** _You, on the other hand, looked delicious_.**

|| Mycroft || 15:18  
** _Thank you_.**  
** _Is that an acceptable response to a compliment? _**  
** _I wish I were sharing with you tonight. Not simply because Phil is apt to be out-of-sorts_.**__

__In Brussels, laying together in bed basking in the afterglow of sex, Rupert had asked if he wanted to be exclusive._ _

__Mycroft had laughed aloud. “I can barely manage to see you. I don’t know when you think I’d find the time to see anyone else.”_ _

__Rupert hummed thoughtfully. “Cottaging takes no time at all.”_ _

__“Perhaps in London. I’ve never found it especially fast. Or rewarding.”_ _

__“Ah, you’re too choosy.”_ _

__“That is very possibly true.” Mycroft agreed. “Which reflects well on you.” He’d kissed Rupert softly. “I can commit to official exclusivity.”_ _

__“In addition to situational exclusivity.”_ _

__“Yes.” Mycroft laughed. “If you’re certain that _you_ want to limit yourself.” He sobered abruptly. “As little as we’re able to be together.”_ _

__“Ah, but you see, I already have limits — I don’t _want_ anyone but you.”_ _

__“I doubt that’s true.” Mycroft smirked._ _

__“Ok, fine… that’s not strictly true.” Rupert snickered. “The knob wants what the knob wants. But the brain, the brain rebels. My brain only wants you.”_ _

__“Your brain is sentimental.”_ _

__“And yours isn’t?”_ _

__“My brain has had sentimental moments.” Mycroft admitted. “I try to restrict them.”_ _

__“Mm. How is that going?”_ _

__“At the moment? Poorly.”_ _

__

__\---_ _

__

__Rupert was an excellent judge of character — Phil Robert was indeed out-of-sorts. He was a prickly fellow to begin with, a bad mood made him sullen and snappish._ _

__Mycroft discovered the reason the next day. The course took them into the French Alps up and down three category two climbs to finish at the top of a fourth ascent — a twenty-kilometre climb with an average gradient of 8.6 percent and a maximum gradient of 21 percent. It was so long and difficult it was classified “hors category,” beyond categorisation._ _

__John Watson, as the winner of the first stage, wore the leader’s jersey. It made him seem larger, but perhaps that was simply the swell of pride in the rider’s chest at having earned such an honour. Greg, who was rooming with Watson, looked almost as chuffed. And very relieved._ _

__The plan had been for _him_ to win the jersey._ _

__“I didn’t have the legs.” Greg said on the bus the night before as they’d travelled to the hotel._ _

__Hugo had patted him on the shoulder. “It happens to everyone.” He said. “A bad day.”_ _

__Mycroft noted what appeared to be a spit-up stain on the shoulder of Greg’s jumper and the spare dummy stuffed in his jeans pocket. That combined with the dark circles under his eyes, made it completely clear that parenting was taking a toll. Greg simply didn’t have the top-end fitness he should have._ _

__“I’m just happy that Watson could do it.” Greg was sincere — he’d let the team down. They’d worked hard to set him up for the win and he’d failed before he could even try. Watson’s win meant that all the hard work was rewarded. It took some of the pressure off Greg._ _

__But now the pressure switched to Phillipe Robert’s shoulders._ _

__As they had the leader’s jersey, it was Amstel’s responsibility to lead the peloton. For the first 120 kilometres, Amstel rode at the front — Tug Goossens doing the work of three men — protecting both Watson in his yellow jersey, and Robert, their hope to win the whole thing._ _

__On the penultimate climb, Goossens gave the lead over to Greg Lestrade and once again Amstel set a pace uphill meant to hurt the other teams. The pack bled riders out the back whilst the best climbers rode grimly behind Amstel. Greg finally gave way and Mikel Vitola took on the role of lead torturer._ _

__Vitola took them down the descent. Greg and Goossens, along with most of the peloton, caught up and the two Amstel riders traded pulls across the valley. They didn’t last long on the final mountain._ _

__Mikel Vitola set a brutal pace right from the bottom. Mycroft could almost hear the collective groan of the peloton. For more than two kilometres, Vitola crushed their dreams. When he pulled aside, the bunch had been reduced by more than half._ _

__Raphael Goméz took over, the remaining members of the Amstel team lined up behind him — Patxi Ondo, John Watson and then their protected rider, Phillipe Robert. Mycroft’s place was on Robert’s wheel. Not only would he be the last man riding in Robert’s service, the last teammate he’d have to chase down attacks and to set the pace at the front, but if Robert had a problem — a flat tyre, a crash — Mycroft would be there to help him. If Robert had a mechanical whilst the racing was hot, Mycroft could give him a wheel or even — as their height was similar — his bike so that Robert could catch up quickly. If that happened, Mycroft would wait for the team car, knowing he’d done all he could for his team leader._ _

__Goméz had grown up in the Andes, biking to school in the village each morning and riding back up the mountain every afternoon to get home. This alpine climb was very much like the one he’d ridden daily since grammar school. The pace he set was punishing._ _

__Kilometre after kilometre, Goméz dragged them uphill. They overtook the members of the breakaway one by one, each going out the back as soon as they were caught. The peloton shrank to thirty men. The only sounds were the rhythmic breathing of his fellows and the occasional click of changing gears._ _

__After eight brutal kilometres, Goméz dropped anchor. Patxi Ondo took over._ _

__As soon as the Basque hit the front, several of the favourites were in trouble, unable to match his furious pace. Jésus Rosa, the leader of the Cinestar team, was isolated — none of his teammates able to keep up. Craddock of LPT had a man with him, but to Mycroft he looked laboured. Conversely, Giant Test Team had a young Pole who did not look bothered at all. Mycroft would have to keep an eye on him._ _

__And of course, Augustus Magnussen was there, appearing fresh and smooth._ _

__Ondo pulled off abruptly as they reached the steepest part of the climb — the ridiculous 21 percent. It was Watson’s turn._ _

__Mycroft imagined how Rupert would enthuse about the yellow jersey sacrificing himself for his team leader. It was the sort of thing the fans loved to watch._ _

__Watson took on the vertical road with aplomb — the leader’s jersey had given him wings. The plan was for Watson to take them within two kilometres of the top — farther if he could. It was not out of the realm of possibility that he could hold on to the jersey today and Hugo would be just as happy with that as he would with Robert taking it over._ _

__If Watson could not make it all the way with the front group, Mycroft, with Robert on his wheel, would attack the peloton, drop as many of the favourites as they could and ride all the way to the finish._ _

__Watson shed more and more riders. Craddock cracked and began losing time. Rosa was struggling, yo-yoing on the back — catching up when the gradient lessened, falling off as it steepened._ _

__With only 2100 metres to go, the group was whittled down to five riders — Watson, Magnussen, Robert, The young Pole from Giant Test Team and Mycroft himself. Abruptly, Watson went from 100 to zero. He jerked to the side, pedalling squares. Mycroft moved as if he were going to take over the pace-setting at the front as Hugo bellowed in his — and Robert’s — ear that _now was the time to GO_!_ _

__Mycroft accelerated. The gradient here had gentled to a mere seventeen percent — it made Mycroft’s legs _throb_. He held the explosive speed for twenty metres then risked a look under his arm. Robert was on his wheel! But Magnussen was with them too._ _

__That couldn’t be helped._ _

__He spun his pedals hard. 1700 metres to the line! And they were leaving everyone else behind — Mycroft would haul Robert until his teammate sprinted around him to take the stage, and the important ten second time bonus!_ _

__But before he’d gone much farther, Hugo spoke in his ear. “Mycroft, ease up a bit.”_ _

___Ease up_? Why would Hugo want him to ease up? Magnussen would attack them if he slowed. Chasing him down would be harder than simply holding this pace. Steady was more efficient — and easier on the legs!_ _

__Then Mycroft comprehended, and a glance under his arm confirmed, Robert was suffering. Phil Robert was on the brink of being dropped._ _

__Mycroft moderated his pace, slowing incrementally, checking regularly to make certain that Robert was still with him. He could see the team leader’s suffering clearly now — Robert was on the rivet. Mycroft took it down another level._ _

__And as he’d _known_ would happen, Magnussen smirked at Mycroft and attacked._ _

__He got a seven-metre gap so quickly! Mycroft began upping the tempo again — the trick was to keep it smooth and steady, lifting the pace just enough to drag Robert up to the sneering Sphere racer._ _

__“Mycroft…” Hugo on the radio. “Mycroft, slow down. Get Phil to the line.”_ _

__Robert was losing his wheel. Mycroft watched Magnussen gain another three metres as he again slowed to nurse his teammate up the hill._ _

__It just about killed him, watching Augustus Magnussen ride away. He could have matched the Sphere rider, possibly even bested him! Mycroft could have wiped that sneer off his face!_ _

__But it was his _job_ to stay with Phillipe Robert. He had never imagined that it would be so difficult._ _

__Abruptly, Mycroft resented it. He was a better rider than Robert! Why was he working for the Frenchman instead of the other way around?!_ _

__He bit back the bile, swallowed it down. _This was his job_! _ _

__Inside his head, Mummy was ridiculing him. _You are the best, Mycroft! Why are you lowering yourself like this!? Why are you playing donkey to an inferior racer_?!_ _

__The young Pole from Giant Test Team caught up with them and Mycroft’s resentment grew. If he’d been allowed his head, he never would have seen the Giant rider again! With 600 metres left, the young Pole dashed around them and rode away._ _

__Mycroft willed Robert to go after the kid! He desperately wanted to chase him down himself! Or _at least_ raise the pace a little, limit their losses. But a glance under his arm and he knew that Robert didn’t have it in him. Mycroft mastered his fury, compacting it into a hard nugget and locking it away._ _

__Magnussen won the stage and the Pole took a strong second. Mycroft dragged Robert over the line for third and fourth._ _

__Ironically, this put Mycroft ahead of Robert in the General Classification. First place was awarded ten bonus seconds — i.e. ten seconds was subtracted from his time — second place was given six, and third place four. Mycroft was four seconds ahead of his team leader._ _

__He was 41 seconds behind Magnussen. Nineteen seconds behind the young Giant racer._ _

___He could have been first_!_ _

__He rode to Anthea who helped him off his bike and gave it over to Alun. She handed him a towel and a recovery drink and walked with him towards the bus. A UCI chaperone caught up — as one of the first racers across the line, he would be tested for performance enhancing drugs._ _

__The young Pole was sitting on the ground, still panting — almost two minutes after crossing the line — looking completely done for. Mycroft envied him. It would have been very satisfying to go that deep, to challenge him for the win. Even if he had not been able to beat Magnussen, he would have given his all, he would have been satisfied with his effort._ _

__As it was Mycroft, though tired, could have ridden another twenty kilometres uphill at race pace._ _

__Robert was bent over his handlebars, face red, phlegm hanging in a long line from his lips. He’d gone very deep. Mycroft wondered coldly if he would recover sufficiently to ride well tomorrow._ _

___”Why are you limiting yourself, Mycroft?_ Mummy asked in his head. _”Why have you tethered yourself to lesser riders? It’s foolish — and you’re far from foolish, Mycroft!”__ _

__Watson rode in with a small group, three minutes after the winner. He’d ceded the leader’s jersey to Magnussen, and the white jersey of the best young rider to the Pole. The young Giant racer was very likely older than both Watson and Mycroft, but he looked to be all of fourteen._ _

__There was a bitter taste in Mycroft’s mouth as he followed his chaperone to the testing tent._ _

__

__\---_ _

__

__|| Rupert Yates || 16:01  
** _The Iceman returneth_!**_ _

__|| Mycroft || 16:16  
** _What do you mean_?**_ _

__|| Rupert Yates || 16:16  
** _You have the best poker face I’ve ever seen. If bloody Gus Magnussen had looked at ME like that when he attacked, I would not have looked near so cool__ _

__Mycroft had nothing to say to that. Rather, he had _too much_ to say about it, but if he indulged himself and complained, he knew would not be able to stop. _ _

__|| Rupert Yates || 16:23  
** _Twitter is alight with calls to “Free Mycroft Holmes! Free the Iceman!” Have you seen_?**_ _

__|| Mycroft || 16:24  
** _Free me from what_?**_ _

__|| Rupert Yates || 16:24  
** _From Phil Robert_!**  
** _Cycling twitter is in agreement that you could have taken on Magnussen if you didn’t have to slow down for him. ;)_ **_ _

__Mummy’s voice was louder. Mycroft felt exceedingly cranky._ _

__|| Mycroft || 16:24  
** _I do not wish to be freed from my job_ **_ _

__He turned his phone off and stuffed it inside his gear bag._ _

__

__\---_ _

__

__“At least I was able to help out today.” Greg said., his voice pitched so only Mycroft could hear. He’d sat next to Mycroft at dinner, his mien glum. “I hate letting everyone down.”_ _

__Mycroft glanced at Phillippe Robert. He looked bored and more than a little tired. “At least you gave your all.” Mycroft mumbled. “Didn’t have to hold back.”_ _

__“Huh?”_ _

__“Apologies.” Mycroft should not have said anything — it was weak to complain. “I’m just thinking out loud.” How did Greg Lestrade loosen his tongue when he was determined to hold it?_ _

__“You _can_ tell me, you know.” Greg murmured. “Anything.”_ _

__“Perhaps later.” Mycroft said, meaning _never_._ _

__Ultimately, Mycroft was glad he’d stayed silent. Hugo gave a little speech after they ate, highlighting how well each rider had done that day. By the time Hugo got to his performance, Mycroft was fuming inwardly._ _

__“…for a rider to sacrifice himself the way Holmes did today… to give up his own chance at glory in service of the team leader, that takes real mental toughness. You’re a credit to Amstel!”_ _

__Mycroft’s ballooning rage abruptly lost all its air. Hugo was _testing_ him! Hugo needed to see that Mycroft was part of the team, that he would ride for someone even if they weren’t doing well that day._ _

__Of course, Hugo knew Mycroft could have gone with Magnussen._ _

__Whilst Mycroft had been caught up in resentment and feeling entitled, Hugo had been assessing his willingness to use his strength not for himself, but for another. In a three-week grand tour, every rider had a bad day. Hugo had to know that Mycroft would not abandon Robert when he needed him._ _

__Abruptly, Mycroft was ashamed of himself. He’d allowed Mummy’s voice to drown out his good sense. As sour as it had tasted to watch a sneering Magnussen ride away from him, this tasted worse._ _

__As Hugo outlined the strategy to take the overall lead from Magnussen the next day, Mycroft banished Mummy’s mocking voice from his head. He _had_ performed well. He had fulfilled his function! He _would_ be one of the eight men riding the Tour de France! _ _

__

__\----_ _

__

__The _parcours_ for stage three looked like the jagged teeth of a monster, up and down category one climbs all day long, almost from the gun. _ _

__All the Amstel racers warmed up before the stage, spinning through their gears on the turbo trainers getting their legs ready to climb._ _

__Mikel Vitola went in the break, riding away on the first ascent with ten companions. Sphere wasn’t entirely happy with that, but they let him go. Mycroft knew that if it had been himself or Watson, riders in the top ten overall, they would have been chased down. Vitola was no threat._ _

__With Magnussen in the leader’s jersey, it was up to Sphere to control the race. They kept the breakaway on a tight leash, never allowing them more than four minutes lead._ _

__Giant Test Team stepped up on the penultimate climb to challenge Sphere. The young Pole — his name was Lukasz Golinski — was so proud of his white jersey, so hungry for yellow. He reminded Mycroft of a rambunctious puppy managing to herd sheep into the pen for the first time. Golinski sat behind his teammates as they pushed the pace, seemingly unaware of Sphere sitting on his wheel like a ravening shark._ _

__With Mycroft and Phil Robert in third and fourth place respectively, Amstel lined up after Sphere. They’d animated stage two, now they would bide their time, letting the other teams use up their men._ _

__It was a long, hot day — cooler on the mountaintops, but brutally warm in the valleys. Several of the riders had salt stains outlining the sweat on their jerseys. Mycroft felt unpleasantly moist all over. Anthea kept appearing on the roadside, holding out bottles or musettes for him. The sight of her reminded Mycroft to keep eating and drinking, to not allow himself to become dehydrated._ _

__Goossens had fallen back to the grupetto on the first climb. Greg lasted longer, until leg cramp sent him out the back as if he had a parachute attached. Goméz looked rough — he’d admitted to feeling poorly that morning on the bus — but soldiered on stoically. Mycroft, Ondo and Watson surrounded Robert, giving him bottles and bars, seeing to all of his needs as well as their own._ _

__Mycroft slogged on. His legs felt pretty good. He hadn’t gone deep the day before and his muscles felt ready for the challenge. That was easy to say before they reached the final climb._ _

__Robert’s poker face was not as good as Mycroft’s — it was clear that he was suffering. But he was smooth and still on the bike, his cadence high. He wasn’t anywhere close to his limit yet._ _

__The final climb was eleven kilometres with an average of eight percent gradient. It switchbacked up the side of the mountain, the corners the steepest parts. As they approached, the speed picked up as racers jockeyed for a good position. Mycroft stuck his elbows out and refused to give up Robert’s placing._ _

__Sphere swamped Giant as the road pointed upwards, taking over the pace making. They set a fast tempo that separated the climbers from the rest of the riders, whittling the pack efficiently down to the very best._ _

__Watson lost contact first, the young racer’s legs tired from his efforts on the previous stages. Goméz did not last much longer, slowly drifting backwards. Patxi Ondo and Mycroft were left to guard Robert and help him to the top._ _

__The Sphere team systematically destroyed the competition. By the last kilometres, Rosas and Craddock were long gone, second place Golinksi was dangling ten metres off the back, no Giant teammates left to help him, and Robert was hanging on by a thread. Ondo had lost contact a kilometre before, leaving only Mycroft._ _

__This would be the perfect time for Robert to attack, Mycroft thought. He could see the winning strategy perfectly — they were close enough to the line that they wouldn’t crack before reaching it, but still far enough away to gain the seconds needed to win the overall race. Mycroft willed Robert to go for it._ _

__But Robert remained behind him — he simply didn’t have the energy to do more than follow Mycroft’s wheel. In the last kilometre, Magnussen took the reins and rode away from Robert. The Sphere rider was all over his bike, suffering badly — Mycroft _knew_ that he could have gone with him, could have out-ridden him. _He_ still felt relatively good._ _

__But Mycroft let Magnussen go – it wasn’t nearly as difficult for him to watch the Sphere man go as it had been the day before. _This was his job_! He gritted his teeth and dragged Robert forwards, checking constantly to see that the man was still on his wheel. It was painful watching him struggle. _ _

__As they approached the finish line, Mycroft waved Robert around him, allowing him to cross the line second, Mycroft third. With the four second time bonus Mycroft had taken the day before, and another four seconds on stage three, he took over second place. Robert’s six second time bonus for second on the stage was not enough to surpass him._ _

__Mummy’s voice rang loudly in his ears — _Second place without even trying_! She shouted. _Why isn’t the team working for YOU_!?_ _

__He shook it off, allowing Anthea to take his helmet and shove a bottle of water into his hand. Mycroft had passed Hugo’s test, that was what was important._ _

__Mycroft _would_ be riding in the Tour de France!_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for leaving you hanging for a few weeks! I'm building a website at work — in addition to all the usual — and it's really cut into my time. I will try to continue to post on Sundays, but I can't keep to a schedule right now.
> 
> Next time, altitude training camp with the boys AND Mycroft unexpectedly falls in love with France.
> 
> Thank you all for your patience and your lovely comments! It's a very bright spot in the dreadful DRAMA the USA is currently navigating. I now truly understand the curse, "May you live in interesting times."


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